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Representative English Comedies 

FROM THE BEGINNINGS 

TO 

SHAKESPEARE 



'j^'^y^ 



REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH 
COMEDIES 

WITH INTRODUCTORY ESSAYS AND NOTES 

AN HISTORICAL VIEW OF OUR EARLIER COMEDY 

AND OTHER MONOGRAPHS 

BY VARIOUS WRITERS 

UNDER THE GENERAL EDITORSHIP OF 

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY, Litt.D., LL.D. 

Professor of the E?iglish Language and Literature 
in the University of California 

FROM THE BEGINNINGS 

TO 

SHAKESPEARE 



Neto gotk: 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 

LONDON :'MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
I9I2 

All rights reser-ved 



jj^/a^-g 



-> o 



Copyright, 1903, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up, electrotyped, and published March, 1903. Reprinted 
November, 1903; June, 1907 ; October, 1912. 



/ ^y- 



:Kr(n:bjooli ^ress 

J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norivoody Mass., U.S.A. 



PREFACE 

" ' Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no 
more cakes and ale . . . nor ginger hot i' the mouth ? ' Or 
knowest not that while man, casting the dice with Fate and Mis- 
tress Grundy, imagineth a new luck, there shall be new comedy ? 
Why, then, reprint these old ? " 

In part, because the comedies of a nation are for literature as 
well as for the footlights, and literature, in most cases,* begins after 
the footlights are out. In part, because old comedies make good 
reading, not only for lovers of fiction and the stage, but for the 
student of society and the historian. Until rival forms of literary 
art began to usurp their function, comedies were — in England, not 
o speak of other and older lands — the recognized and cherished 
exponent of the successive phases of contemporary life. For us 
they still are living sketches of the social manners, morals, vanities, 
and ideals of generations of our ancestors ; history " unbeknownst" 
as written by contemporaries. Unfortunately, many of these old 
comedies are inaccessible to the public ; and, therefore, we venture 
to hope that the general reader may find such a collection as the 
present acceptable, whether he care to enter upon a historical and 
technical study of the subject or not. 

To the student of literary history, however, this series will, we 
trust, justify its existence for quite another reason. For the aim 
of this volume and those which will follow is to indicate the 
development of a literary type by a selection of its representative 
specimens, arranged in the order of their production and accom- 



vi Preface 



panied by critical and historical studies. So little has been scien- 
tifically determined concerning evolution or permutation in literature 
that the more specific the field of inquiry, the more trustworthy 
are the results attained, — hence the limitation of this research not 
merely to a genus like the drama, but to one of its species. What 
is here presented to the public differs from histories of the drama in 
that it is more restricted in scope and that it substantiates the nar- 
rative of a literary growth by reproducing the data necessary to an 
induction ; it differs from editions of individual plays and drama- 
tists, on the other hand, because it attempts to concatenate its texts 
by a running commentary upon the characteristics of the species 
under consideration as they successively appear. It is an illustrated, 
if not certified, history of English comedy. 

The plays, in this series called representative, have been chosen 
primarily for their importance in the history of comedy, generally 
also for their literary quality, and, when possible, for their practical, 
dramatic, or histrionic value. Of the studies accompanying them, 
some are special, such as those dealing with the several authors and 
plays; some general, the monographs upon groups or movements, 
and the sketch introductory to the volume. The essay prefatory 
to a play includes, when possible, an outline of the dramatist's life, a 
concise history of his contribution to comedy, with reference, when 
appropriate, to his productions in other fields, an estimate of his 
output in its relation to the national, social, literary, and technical 
development of the type in question, and to such foreign move- 
ments and influences as may be cognate, and, finally, an exposition 
and criticism of the play presented. By the insertion in proper 
chronological position of occasional monographs, it is intended to 
represent minor dramatists or groups of the same school, period, or 
movement, — sometimes, indeed, an author of exceptional impor- 
tance, — in such a way that the historical continuity of the species 



Preface 



vu 



may be as evident in its minor manifestations as in the better 
known. The general introductions to these volumes will usually 
attempt to discuss matters of historical interest not covered by 
the editors of special portions of the work. It has been necessary, 
therefore, lo open the series, in this book, with an historical view 
of the beginnings of comedy in England. While the various con- 
tributors to the enterprise have exercised their individual preferences 
in matters of literary treatment, judgment, and style, the general 
editor has attempted to secure the requisite degree of uniformity by 
requesting each to conform so far as his taste and historical con- 
science might permit to a common but elastic outline of method 
previously prepared. If the attempt has succeeded, there has been 
gained something of continuity and scientific value for the series. 
The presence, at the same time, of an occasional personal element 
in the several articles of the history will enhance its value for our 
dear friend, the good old-fashioned reader, who sets no store by 
literary science, but judges books by his liking, and likes to read 
such judgments of them. 

The texts of the comedies presented are, to the best ability of 
their respective editors, faithful reprints of the best originals ; where 
possible, those published during the authors' lives. Spelling and 
language have been preserved as they were \ but for the conven- 
ience of readers, the punctuation and the style of capitals and 
letters, such as /, 7, «, <y, J, have been, unless otherwise specified, 
conformed to the modern custom. 

The general editor regrets that it has not been feasible to preface 
the series with some of the still earlier experiments in comedy, 
but he indulges the hope that such a volume may later be added, 
and, also, that it may soon be possible to publish in its proper pro- 
portions the materials which have been condensed into the Historical 
View here submitted. He takes this opportunity to express his 



Vlll 



Preface 



appreciation of the courtesy of the scholars who have engaged with 
him in this undertaking, and especially to thank Mr. Pollard of the 
British Museum, and Mr. E. W. B. Nicholson of the Bodleian 
Library, Professor Gummere, Professor Dowden, and the Master 
of Peterhouse for assistance, encouragement, and counsel which 
have contributed to make this labour a delight. Other volumes of 
this series are well under way, and will follow with all reasonable 
celerity. 

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY. 

University of California, 
February 3, 1903. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

I. An Historical View of the Beginnings of English Comedy 

By Charles Mills Gayley 

Of the Uni'versity of California XI 

II. John Heywood : Critical Essay . Alfred W. Pollard 

Of St. Johns College, Oxford, and the British Museum I 

Edition of the P/^j;^/M^ ^^//^^^ . • • • The Same 19 
Edition of a Mery Play betweene Johan Johan, Tyb, etc. 

The Same 61 

III. Nicholas Udall : Critical Essay . . . Ewald Flugel 

Of Stanford Uni'venity 87 

Edition of ;?^/-f/^r /)m/^r The Same 105 

Appendix on Various Matters The Same 189 

IV. William Stevenson : Critical Essay . Henry Bradley 

Of the Uni'versity of Oxford I 9 5 

Edition of Gammer Gurtons Nedle .... The Same 205 
Appendix ...» The Same 259 

V. John Lyly : Critical Essay . . o . George P. Baker 

Of Harvard Uni'versity 263 

Edition of Alexander and Campaspe .... The Same 277 

VI. George Peele : Critical Essay . . . F. B. Gummere 

Of Ha'verford College 333 

Edition of The Old Wives' Tale .... The Same 349 
Appendix TheSame 3^3 



IX 



X Contents 

Page 
VII. Greene's Place in Comedy : A Monograph .... 

G. E. Woodberry 

Of Columbia Uni'versity 385 

VIII. Robert Greene : His Life, and the Order of his Plays . 

Charles Mills Gay ley 395 
Edition of the Honourable Historie of Frier Bacon 

The Same 433 
Appendix on Greene's Versification .... The Same 503 

IX. Henry Porter : Critical Essay . Charles Mills Gayley 513 
Edition of The Two Angry Women of Abington . 

The Same 537 

X. Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist . Edward Dowden 

Of Trinity College, Dublin 635 

Index « . . 663 



An Historical View 



BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH COMEDY 



By Charles Mills Gayley 



AN HISTORICAL VIEW OF THE BEGINNINGS 
OF ENGLISH COMEDY 

I. Liturgical Fragments, Early Saints* Plays and Parodies 

The earliest evidence of dramatic eiFort in England is to be found in Latin 
tropes of the Easter service, composed for use in churches at different periods 
between 967 and the middle of the eleventh century. While these are, of 
course, serious in nature and function, they interest the historian of comedy 
because they show that the dramatic spirit was at work among our ancestors 
before the Anglo-Saxons had passed under the yoke of the Normans. Like- 
wise naturally devoid of comic interest, but of vital importance in the de- 
velopment of a dramatic technique, are certain fragments of Hturgical plays, 
belonging to the library of Shrewsbury School, which were pubhshed in 1890 
by Professor Skeat.^ Each of these deals, as an integer, with a crisis in the 
career of our Lord ; and, except for occasional choruses and passages from 
the liturgy in Latin, the plays are English — the Enghsh, in fact, translating 
and enlarging upon the Latin of the service. Though the manuscript is prob- 
ably not older than 1400, it is a fragment, as Professor Manly has said, of a 
series of plays of much earlier date, which were ** performed in a church on 
the days and in the service celebrating events of which the plays treat." ^ 
These fragments are of great importance as constituting a link between the 
dramatic tropes of the tenth and eleventh centuries and the scriptural pageants 
presented at a later period outside the church : first by the clergy, with the 
assistance, perhaps, of townspeople (as may have been the case when a Res- 
urrection play was given in the churchyard of St. John's, Beverley, about 
1220) ; afterward by the civic authorities and the several gilds when church 
plays had come to be acted commonly in the streets, that is, after the reinsti- 
tution of the feast of Corpus Christi in 1 3 1 1 . 

The existence of tropes at a period earlier than that in which mention is 
made of plays based upon the miracles of the saints appears to me to negative 
Professor Ten Brink's conjecture that in the development of our sacred drama 
legendary subjects preceded the bibhcal. Indeed, the fact that dramas on 

1 In The Academy, January 11, 1890. 

2 Manly, Specimens of the F re- Shakespeare an Drama, vol. I., p. xxvii 5 for examples of 
dramatic tropes from the Regularis Concordia Monachorum and the Winchester troper see 
pp. xix-xxvi. 



xiv An Historical View 

subjects both biblical and legendary, and of a technique even more highly- 
developed than that of the Shrewsbury, were, as early as 1 1 60, produced for 
liturgical functions in France, not only by Frenchmen, but by one Hilarius, 
who was presumably an Englishman, favours the opinion that the earliest 
saints' plays in England, also, were as frequently derived from scriptural as 
from legendary sources. It is, moreover, likely that the first saints' plays on 
legendary subjects in England of which we have record were neither the first 
of their kind in the period attributed to their presentation, nor a notable advance 
in dramatic art when they were presented. There is nothing in the earhest 
record of a legendary saint's play, the miracle of St. Katharine, presented by 
Geoffrey, afterwards Abbot of St. Albans, at Dunstable about iioo, to war- 
rant the inference that it was a novelty, even at that date. Since Geoffrey 
was at the time awaiting a position as schoolmaster, he was probably within 
his function, de consuetudine magistrorum et scholarum^ when he produced 
the play ; and it is to be noticed that when Matthew of Paris writes con- 
cerning the matter, about 124.0, he appears to be much more interested in 
an accident which attended the performance than in the mere composition and 
presentation of what he calls ** some play or other of St. Katharine, of the kind 
that we commonly call Miracles."^ Indeed, William Fitzstephen, writing 
some seventy years before Matthew, speaks of such plays of the saints as in 
his time quite customary. The probabilities are, then, that this first legendary 
saint's play recorded as acted in England had been preceded by others of its 
kind, and they in turn by miracles of biblical heroes and by Hturgical plays and 
dramatic tropes of the services of the church. 

It is not unreasonable to surmise that this legendary kind of miracle, 
although sometimes used as part of the church service on the saint's day, 
and originally possessed of serious features, speedily developed characteristics 
helpful in the progress of the comic drama. All we know of the St. Katha- 
rine play is that it was written for secular presentation at a date when no 
mention is yet made of the public acting of scriptural plays. The dramatist 
would, however, be more likely to adorn the useful with the amusing in the 
preparation of a play not necessarily to be performed within the sacred pre- 
cincts ; and while the technique of the legendary miracle was presumably 
akin from the first to that of the biblical, it is natural to suppose that the plot 
was handled with larger imaginative freedom. 

But our knowledge of these early saints' plays need not be endrely a 
matter of surmise. We may form a fair idea of their character from con- 

1 Non no'vo quidem instituto, sed de consuetudine, etc., says Bulaeus, Hist. Uni-v.y Par. II., 
226 (edit. 1665); Collier, English Dramatic Poetry, and Annals of the Stage, I. 14. 

2 In his Li-ves of the Abbots of St. Albans. 



of English Comedy xv 

temporary testimony, from the style of the Latin or French saints' plays of 
the time that have survived, from the nature of the legends dramatized, and 
from the analogy of contemporary biblical plays. To the /ocus classicus of 
contemporary testimony in WilHam Fitzstephen's Life of Thomas a Becket 
(i 170—82) I have already made reference. Speaking of the theatrical shows 
and spectacular plays of Rome, the biographer says that ** London has plays 
of a more sacred character — representations of the miracles which saintly 
confessors have wrought, or of the sufferings whereby the fortitude of martyrs 
has been displayed." According to this, the ludi sa?ictiores, or marvels, as 
they seem later to be called,^ are of two classes : the marvel of the faith 
that removes mountains, the marvel of the fortitude that endures martyrdom. 
In either case the saint's play is of the stuff that produces comedy ; for, 
whether the miracles are active or passive, the Christian saint and soldier 
always proceeds victorious, and with increasing merit abides as ensample and 
intercessor in the church invisible. 

This relation of the saint's play to comedy appears the more evident 
when we read in the Golde?i Lege?id and elsewhere the histories of the saints 
who became favourites in English or foreign drama or pageant, — St. Katharine, 
St. George, St. Susanna, St. Botulf, and the Hke. In most cases the triumph 
of the marvel naturally outweighed the terror ; and in the one of the few 
Enghsh plays of the purely legendary kind that survives, the St. George — 
degenerate in form and now merely a folk drama — the self-glorification of 
the saint and the amusing discomfiture and recovery of himself and his foes are 
the only elements that have outhved the stress of centuries. The Miracle of 
St. Nicholas, written in the middle of the twelfth century, affords still better 
opportunity of studying the dramatic quality of the kind in question. For the 
author, Hilarius, wrote also in a like mixture — Latin with French refrains — 
a scriptural play of Lazarus ; and in collaboration with others, but entirely in 
Latin, a magnificent dramatic history called Daniel. These, like the St. 
Nicholas, were adapted to performance in church at the appropriate season in 
the holy year, and no better illustration can be found of the essential difference 
between the scriptural or so-called * mystery ' play, on the one hand, and the 
saint's play, on the other, than is offered by them. The two scriptural plays, 
stately, reverent, adapted to the solemn and regular ritual of which they are an 
illustration in the concrete betray not a gleam of humour ; the play of the other 
kind, written as it is for the festival of a jovial saint, leaps i7i medlas res with 
bustle and surprise ; and from the speech with which Barbarus entrusts his 
treasure to the saint even to the last French refrain, after Nicholas has forced the 
robbers to restitution, we are well over the brink of the comic. By the con- 

1 In the Household Book^ Henry VII. 5 Collier, Hist., vol. i, p. 530. 



XVI 



An Historical View 



eluding scene, serious and in Latin of the church, setting forth the conversion 
of the pagan, the feelings of the congregation are restored to the level of the 
divine service, momentarily interrupted by the comedy but now resumed. 

These, and all saints' plays not, like the St. Anne's play, of a cyclic 
character, were, from the first, dramatic units ; they represented a single 
general plot, generally of a single hero ; the action was focussed on the 
critical period of his life ; and a considerable incitement was consequently 
offered to invention of incident and development of character. A com- 
parative study of the plays concerning St. Nicholas will justify the statement 
that the dramatist was by way of taking liberties with, or varying, his selec- 
tion from legend. The Einsiedeln Nicholas play of the twelfth century 
deals with a different miracle from that dramatized by Hilarius ; and of the 
four Fleury plays of St. Nicholas, probably composed in the same century, 
the two that deal with these miracles vary the treatment ; the other two are 
on different themes, but all would appear, from the editions which we have 
of them, to be promising little comedies. The possibilities of this kind of 
drama are best displayed in still another play of St. Nicholas, written in 
the vernacular by a Frenchman of Arras, Jean Bodel, about the year 1205. 
Throwing the traditional legends entirely overboard, he gives his imagination 
free course with favouring winds of knightly adventure, but over the waters 
of everyday life. He produces a play at once comic, fanciful, and realistic, 
the first of its kind — of so excellent a quality that Creizenach says that it 
would appear as if dramatic poetry were even then well on the way of 
development from the ecclesiastical model to a romantic kind of art in the 
style of the later English and Spanish drama : chivalric, fantastic, and realistic.^ 

Unfortunately, other plays of this kind, like the Theophilus of Rutebeuf, 
do not always avail themselves of their chances ; but we may in general sur- 
mise that such plays in English — and we have evidence of many — contrib- 
uted as much as the biblical miracle to the cultivation of a popular taste for 
comedy and the encouragement of inventive power in the handling of dramatic 
fable. I believe that they contributed more than the pre- Reformation morals, 
and fi-om an earlier period. 

I have said that in all probability there was nothing unusual in the presen- 
tation of saints' plays by Hilarius and Geoffrey. Latin plays were not a 
novelty in the twelfth century, at any rate to men of culture and the church. 
When we consider the history of the Terentian and Plautine manuscripts, 
how carefully the former were cherished, and with what appreciation a por- 
tion at least of the latter, during the Middle Ages, we cannot but apprehend 
the extent of their influence, even when unapparent, upon taste, style, and 

1 Gesch. des neueren Dramas, I. 141. 



of English Comedy xvii 



thought. Plautus (in whose comedies, with those of Terence, St. Jerome was 
wont to seek consolation after seasons of strenuous fasting and prayer) was 
imitated in a Querolus and probably a Geta, as early as the fourth century ; and 
Terence was adapted by Hrosvitha in the tenth. We are, therefore, not at all 
surprised when we find Latin comedy during the twelfth and thirteenth cen- 
turies clothing itself through France and Italy in the verdure of another spring. 
To be sure the new style of production — a declamation by way of dialogue 
or conversational narrative, in elegiac verse — was not intended for histrionic 
presentation ; but it was nevertheless of the dramatic ge?ius ; little by little the 
narrative outline dwindled and the mimetic opportunities of the speaker were 
emphasized. His success was measured by his skill in representing diverse 
characters merely by changes of voice, countenance, and gesture. He is the 
impersonator in transition to the actor. These elegiac comedies indicate the 
continuing influence of Latin comedy upon the literary creativity of the day ; 
they furnish, besides, both the material for the regular drama that was coming, 
and the taste by which it should be controlled. I am, indeed, of the opinion 
that from this source the farce interludes of England, France, and Italy drew 
much o^ their content during the next three centuries, and that the saint's 
plays of that period, at least those in Latin, derived therefrom their dramatic 
technique. The revival of Latin comedy during the twelfth century was 
partly by way of adaptations, as in the dramatic poems of Vitalis of Blois ; 
partly of independent productions, fashioned upon classical models but dealing 
with contesy fabliaux or novelle of contemporary quality. Of the latter kind 
the more interesting examples upon the continent were the Alda of William of 
Blois, and two elegiac poems, perhaps Italian, of lovers and go-betweens, — a 
graceful and passionate comedy of Pamphilus and a dramatic version by one 
Jacobus of the intrigue, so dear to mediaeval satirists, between priest and 
labourer's wife. The subject and treatment of the last of these suggest, at 
once, a kinship with an Interludium de Clerico et Puella in English of the 
end of the thirteenth century, and with an earlier English story from which 
that is derived ; also with Hey wood's much later play of Johan. That there 
was a Latin elegiac comedy in England during the twelfth and thirteenth cen- 
turies, — comedy of domestic romance with all or some of the characters com- 
mon to the kind — youth and maid, wife and paramour, enamoured cleric, 
faithless husband, cuckold, enraged father, parasite, slave, go-between, and 
double, — is rendered probable by the survival of two such poems, one of 
which bears internal evidence of its origin in England, while the only manu- 
scripts extant of the other were found in that country. The first lacks a 
title, but has been called the Baucis after the manipulator of the intrigue, a 
procuress ; the second is named Babio for the unhappy hero who is at one 



xviii An Historical View 

and the same time fooled by his wife whom he doesn't love, and his step- 
daughter whom he does. Both comedies display the influence of classical 
Latin, but the latter sparkles with the humour and spontaneity of the comedy 
of contemporary life.^ 

I agree, therefore, with Dr. Ward that the burden of proof is with those 
who assert that the Latin comedy of the Middle Ages made no impression upon 
the earlier drama of England. That the former was one of the tributaries of 
the farce interlude and the principal source of the romantic play of domestic 
intrigue I have no doubt whatever. And, considering the influx of French 
clerics and culture during the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, and 
the French affiliations of Geoffrey of St. Albans and Hilarius, our earliest 
recorded writers of saints* plays, not to speak of the latinity of our Maps, 
Wirekers, and other scholars of Henry II. 's reign, and their famiharity with 
the literature of the Continent, which was Latin, — it would be unreason- 
able to assume that the authors of our saints' plays, whether in Latin or not, 
did not derive something of their technique from the elegiac comedies of their 
contemporary latinists in France and England, or indeed from the adaptations 
of Plautus and Terence in previous centuries, or from the originals themselves. 

When the religious drama passed into the hands of the crafts, it carried 
with it such individual plays, of both scriptural and legendary kinds, as were 
suitable to the collective character which it was assuming. The Corpus Christi, 
Whitsuntide, Easter, or Christmas cycle, though it aimed to illustrate sacred 
history and so justify God's ways to man, drew its materials, not only from 
the scriptures of the canon, but fi"om the Apocrypha, the pseudo-Gospels, and 
mediaeval legends of scriptural and sometimes non -scriptural saints. There 
was no real ground for distinction, and there is none now, dramatic or di- 
dactic, between the non-scriptural stories of scriptural characters, St. Joseph, 
and St. Thomas, stories of the Death, Assumption, and Coronation of the 
Virgin, stories of St. Paul and St. Mary Magdalene, which happened to be 
absorbed into this or the other miracle cycle, and the non-scriptural stories 
of extra-biblical saints in plays which have retained their independence : that 
of Nicholas, for instance, or of Katharine or Laurence or Christina, except 
that these and their heroes are concerned with events later than those w^hich con- 
clude the earthly career of our Lord and of the Virgin Mary. All religious 
historical plays, biblical or legendary, cyclic or independent, of events contem- 
poraneous with, or subsequent to, the scriptural, were miracles, properly so 
called by our forefathers ; and as the didactic intent of the species waned, one 

1 See Wright's Early Mysteries, etc., Klein's Gescbichte des Dramas, III. 638 et seq., 
Creizenach, Gescb. d. n. Dramas, I. 37 fr seq. ^uadrio speaks in his Storia, III. ii. 52, of a 
Pietro Babyone, an Englishman, who, according to Bale, wrote a Latin comedy in verse, c. 1 366. 



of English Comedy xix 

was as likely as another to develop material for amusement. Indeed, the 
authors of the Manuel des Pechiez and The Handlynge Synne, — the preacher 
of that fourteenth-century attack upon miracle plays which has been preserved, 
in the ReliquicE A?itiqu(E, — these, and Chaucer, Langland, and Wyclif make 
no distinction between miracles of the central mystery from the Old and New 
Testaments and miracles worked and suffered by saints, whether legendary or 
biblical. The distinction, if any, made by them, is between miracles acted to 
further belief by priests and clerks in orders in the church, and those acted for 
amusement by these or by laymen in the streets and on the greens. And it is 
safe to say that as soon as a play became more amusing than edifying, it fell 
under the censure of the church. This happened as early as 1210, when a 
decretal of Innocent III. forbade the acting of ludi theatrales in churches. 
Indeed much earlier, for Tertullian and St. Augustine and the Councils had 
consistently condemned the performances oi histriones, mimi, lusores, and others 
who perpetuated the traditions of the pagan Roman stage. In 1227 the 
Council of Treves took such action. Gregory IX. attempted to put a stop 
to the growing participation of the clergy, *'lest the honour of the church 
should be defiled by these shameful practices." ^ And during the succeeding 
decades more than one Synod issued orders of the same tenor. Now, even 
though it is practically certain that these fulminations were directed against 
perversions of divine worship, mock festivals and profane plays with the 
monstrous disguisings or mummings involved,^ there is also no doubt that 
the prohibition came speedily to apply to the use of masks and other dis- 
guises in sacred plays, and then to the presentation of plays in church for 
any other than devotional purposes. Such for instance was' the animus with 
which William of Wadington, in the Ma?iuel des Pechiez^ about 1235, called 
attention to the scandal of the foohsh clergy who, in disguise, acted miracles 
* ky est defendu en decre.^ To play the Resurrection in church, pur plus 
aver devociun, was permissible ; but to gather assemblies in the streets of the 
cities after dinner, when fools more readily congregate, that was a sacrilege. 
At this early date, we may be sure that the kind of drama which was 
extruded from the church had already invested such of its subjects as were 
biblical or legendary with the realistic and comic qualities which made for 
popularity, and so was fitting itself for adoption by the crafts. Indeed, we 
are told by a thirteenth-century historian of the Church of York,^ that, at a 
date which must be set near 1220, there was a representation as usual of the 
Lord's Ascension by masked performers, in words and acting ; and that a large 

1 Ward, I. 52. 2 Creizenach, I. loi. 

3 Historians of the Church of York, Rolls Series, No. 71, i. 328. J^uoted by A. F. 
Leach in Some English Plays and Players, Furnivall Miscellany, p. 206. 



XX An Historical View 

crowd of both sexes was assembled, led there by different impulses, some by 
mere pleasure and wonder , others for a religious purpose. This was the play 
in the churchyard of St. John's, Beverley, to which I have referred before. 
The miracula of the story cited by Wright ^ and conjecturally assigned to the 
thirteenth century, had also passed beyond the sheer didactic stage, for the 
auditors, who resorted to the spectacle in the ** meadow above the stream," 
expressed their appreciation nunc silent es nunc cachinnantes. When, after the 
reinstitution of the festival of Corpus Christi, in 131 1, these plays began to 
be a function of the gilds, their secularization, even though the clerks still par- 
ticipated in the acting, was but a question of time ; and the occasional injection 
of crude comedy was a natural response to the civic demand. It would be 
erroneous, however, to imagine that the church abandoned the drama when 
the town took it up : the church maintained a liturgical drama, in some places, 
until well into the sixteenth century ; and as late as 1572 individual clergy- 
men are condemned for playing interludes in churches.^ 

If the writers of saints' plays, with their attempt to satisfy the yearning 
for ideal freedom which is natural in all times and places, took, in their fictions 
of the religious-marvellous, a step towards what may be called romantic 
comedy, — a step no less important, though nowadays often unnoticed, was 
taken toward the comedy of ridicule, satire, and burlesque, at a date quite as 
remote, by the contrivers of religious parodies. It is curious, though not at 
all unnatural, that some of the earliest efforts at comic entertainment should 
proceed from the revolt against ecclesiastical formality and constraint. I 
cannot in this place do more than remind the reader of the antiquity of three 
of the most notable of these dramatic travesties : the Feast of Fools, the elec- 
tion of the Boy Bishop, and the Feast of the Ass. The first of these was 
celebrated on the Continent as early as 1182, one may say with reasonable 
certainty, 990. It is indeed more than a conjecture that the Feasts of 
Fools and the Ass inherited the license of the Roman Saturnalia, the season 
and spirit of which were assimilated by the Christian Feast of the Nativity. 
Whether adopted by the church in its effort to concihate paganism, or toler- 
ated for reasons of secular policy, these mock-religious festivals were soon the 
Frankenstein of Christianity ; and it was doubtless against them rather than 
the seductions of the sacred drama that most of the ecclesiastical prohibitions 
of the Middle Ages were aimed. With its necessary comic accessories, the 
Feast of Fools was well established in England before 1226, and it was still 
flourishing in 1390 when Courtney forbade its performance in London. 
** The vicars," he said, **and clerks dressed like laymen, laughed, shouted, 

1 In Supp. Dods. Old Plays^ Introd. to Chester Playsy ix. ; Latin Stories, p. 100. 

2 ^n Ansiver to a Certain Libel ^ &c., in Collier, II. 73. 



of English Comedy xxi 

and acted plays which they commonly and fitly called the Feast of Fools," 
They travestied the dignitaries of the church, they turned the service inside 
out, put obscenity for sanctity atnd blasphemy for prayer. While it does not 
appear that in England, as on the Continent,^ the procession of the Boy Bishop 
was attended with frivolity or profanity, it was certainly celebrated with mum- 
mings and plays of suitable kind, not altogether serious. This ceremony dates 
as far back as St. Nicholas day, 1229, and was still to the fore in 1556. 
The Feast of the Ass appears to have been recognized by the church as early 
as the Feast of Fools. I do not know when it was introduced into England, 
but it was played upon Palm Sunday as late as the middle of the sixteenth 
century. In France it had been notoriously wanton since the beginning of 
the thirteenth; and it could not exist anywhere without promoting the spirit 
of burlesque and farce. Although the initial purpose of these festi als was to 
satirize the hierarchy and ecclesiastical convention, they applied themselves 
after they had been repudiated by the church to the ridicule of social folly in 
general ; and, according to the descriptions' of Warton, Douce, Hone, Klein, 
Petit de Julleville, and others, they came to be a vivid interpreter of the 
popular consciousness, a most potent educator of critical insight and dramatic 
instinct, an incitement to artistic even though naive productivity. In France, 
indeed, the Fraternities of Fools produced national satirists and dramatic pro- 
fessionals in one. In England, if they did nothing else, they helped to stimu- 
late a taste for realistic and satiric drama. 



2. The Miracle Cycles in their Relation to Comedy 

Miracle plays and * marvels,' morals too as we soon shall see, were a pro- 
paedeutic to comedy rather than tragedy. For the theme of these dramas is, 
in a word. Christian : the career of the individual as an integral part of the 
social organism, of the religious whole. So also, their aim : the welfare of 
the social individual. They do not exist for the purpose of portraying 
immoderate self-assertion and the vengeance that rides after, but rather the 
beauty of holiness or the comfort of contrition. Herod, Judas, and Antichrist 
are foils, not heroes. The hero of the miracle seals his salvation by accepting 
the spiritual ideal of the community. These plays contribute in a positive 
manner to the maintenance of the social organism. The tragedies of life and 
literature, on the other hand, proceed from secular histories, histories of per- 
sonages liable to disaster because of excessive peculiarity, — of person or 

1 As early as 1304 in Hamburg: Meyer, Gach. d. hamburg. Schul- und Unterrichti- 
wesens im Mittelalter ^ s. 197 : cited in Creizenach, I. 391, 



xxii An Historical View 

position. Whether the rank of the tragic hero be elevated or mean, he is 
unique : his desire is overweening, his frailty irremediable, or his passion un- 
restrained, — his peril unavoidable ; and in his ruin not the principal only, but 
seconds and bystanders, are involved. Tragedy, then, is the drama of Cain, 
of the individual in opposition to the social, pohtical, divine ; its occasion is an 
upheaval of the social organism. 

While the dramatic tone of the miracle cycle is determined by the conser- 
vative character of Christianity in general, the nature of the several plays is 
modified by the relation of each to one or other of the supreme crises in the 
career of our Lord. The plays leading up to, and revolving about, the 
Nativity, are of happy ending, and were doubtless regarded, by authors and 
spectators, as we regard comedy. The murder of Abel, at first sombre, , 
gradually passes into the comedy of the grotesque. The massacre of the in- 
nocents emphasizes, not the weeping of a Rachel, but the joyous escape of the 
Virgin and the Child. In all such stories the horrible is kept in the back- 
ground or used by way of suspense before the happy outcome, or frequently 
as material for mirth. Upon the sweet and joyous character of the pageants 
of Joseph and Mary and the Child it is unnecessary to dwell. They are of 
the very essence of comedy. The plays surrounding the Crucifixion and 
Resurrection are, on the other hand, specimens of the serious drama, the 
tragedy averted. It would hardly be correct to say tragedy ; for the drama 
of the cross is a triumph. In no cycle does the cofisummatum est close the 
pageant of the Crucifixion ; the actors announce, and the spectators beheve, 
that this is '* goddis Sone," whom within three days they shall again behold, 
though he has been **nayled on a tree unworthilye to die." By this con- 
sideration, without doubt, the horror of the buffeting and the scourging, the 
solemnity of the passion, the inhuman cruelty — but not the awe — of the 
Crucifixion, were mitigated for the spectators. Otherwise, mediaeval as they 
were, they could have taken but little pleasure in the realism with which their 
fellows presented the history of the Sacrifice. 

To indulge in a comprehensive discussion of the beginnings of comedy in 
England would be pleasant, but I find that I cannot compel the materials into 
the limits at my command. Accordingly, since the miracle cycles (to which 
Dodsley, following the French, gave the convenient, but un-English and some- 
wJbat misleading, name of * mysteries') have been more frequently and gener- 
ously treated by historians than those other miracles, non-scriptural, which I 
would call * marvels,' and the no less important popular festival plays and 
early farces, and * morals ' or moral and * mery ' interludes, it seems that, in 
favour of the latter, I should defer much that might be said about the cycles 
until a more spacious occasion. 



of English Comedy xxiii 

The manuscript of the York plays appears to have been made about 1430- 
40 ; that of the Wakefield, or so-called Towneley, toward the end of the same 
century; the larger part of the N-town, or so-called Coventry, in 1468 ; and 
the manuscripts of the Chester between 1591 and 1607. The last are, 
however, based upon a text of the beginning of the fifteenth or the end of 
the fourteenth century ; and there is good reason to believe that some of the 
plays were in existence during the first half of the fourteenth. A tradition, 
suspicious but not yet wholly discredited, assigns their composition to the 
period 1267-76. The York cycle, according to Miss Lucy Toulmin 
Smith, was composed between 1340 and 1350. As to the Towneley 
plays, Mr. Pollard decides that they were built in at least three distinct 
stages, covering a period of which the limits were perhaps 1360 and 1410. 
While the composition of the so-called Coventry (apparently acted by stroll- 
ing players) may in general be assigned to the first half of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, some parts give evidence of earlier date. The authenticated dates of the 
representation of miracles in Coventry, 1392— 159 1, I prefer to attribute not 
to this N-town cycle, but to the Coventry Gild plays, two of which still 
exist. ^ They possess no special importance for our present purpose. The 
Newcastle Shipwrights' Play is the much battered survivor of a cycle that was 
in existence in 1426. The Ms. of the three Digby plays of interest to us 
is assigned by Dr. Furnivall to the latter half of the fifteenth century. The 
subject of the first of them, the Killmg of the Childrefi, is of early dramatic 
use, and the treatment of the poltroon knight corresponds suggestively with 
Warton's account of the Christmas play given by the English bishops at the 
Council of Constance in 1417. The two Norwich pageants which survive 
are by no means naive : they were touched up, if not written, during the 
second third of the sixteenth century. 

Other cycle plays which might be enumerated must be omitted, with the 
exception of the Cornish. These were written in Cymric, apparently some- 
what before 1300. They are suggestive to the historian of comedy par- 
ticularly because they yield no faintest glimmer of a smile, save at their 
exquisite credulity and unconsciousness of art. They are a noble instance of 
the sustained seriousness of the scriptural cycle in its early, if not its original, 
popular stage, and, also, of that familiar handling of the sacred that prepares 
the way for the liberty of the comic. 

In approaching the English miracle plays we notice that, as in the Cornish, 
the earliest secular form of the older cycles was principally, if not entirely, 
serious. Reasons which I cannot stay to enumerate prove that comic plays 

^The Shearmen and Taylors' Pageant, from the Annunciation to the Flight into Egypt 
( Ms. , 1533), and the Weavers' Pageant of the Presentation in the Temple. 



XXIV 



An Historical View 



in the older cycles are not of the original series, and that humorous pas- 
sages in plays of the older series are of later interpolation. Now, so far as 
the direct effect upon the comedy of Heywood, Greene, and Shakespeare is 
concerned, it may appear to some of no particular importance in what order 
the cycles in general were composed or the plays within the cycles. But the 
Tudor dramatists did not make their art, they worked with what they found, 
and they found a dramatic medium of expression to which centuries and 
countless influences had contributed. An extended study of the beginnings 
of English comedy should determine, so far as possible, the relative priority, 
not only of cycles, but of the comic passages within the cycles : what each 
composition has contributed to the enfranchisement of the comic spirit and 
the development of the technical factors of the art ; to what extent each has 
expressed or modified the realistic, satirical, romantic, or humorous view of 
Ufe^ and in what ways each has reflected the temper of its time, the manners 
and the mind of the people that wrote, acted, and witnessed. If I arrange 
the plays that bear upon the development of comedy according to my con- 
clusions regarding priority of composition, the order, broadly stated for our 
present rapid survey, is as follows : first, the Cornish and the Old Testament 
portions of the Chester and Coventry; then the productions of the second 
and third periods of the York, and, closely following these, the crowning 
efforts of the Towneley ; then the New Testament plays of the Chester and 
Coventry ; and, finally, the surviving portions of the cycles of Digby and 
Newcasde. This order, which is roughly historical, has the advantage, as I 
perceive after testing it, of presenting a not unnatural sequence of the aesthetic 
values or interests essential to comedy : first, as a full discussion would reveal, 
the humour of the incidental ; then of the essential or real, and, gradually, of 
the satirical in something like their order of appearance within the cycles ; 
afterwards, the accession of the romantic, the wonderful, the allegorical, the 
mock-ideal ; and, finally, of the scenic and sensational. 

Of the significant lack of humour in the Cornish plays I have already 
spoken. I find, though I may not stay to illustrate, a livelier observation and 
a superior faculty of characterization and construction in the early comic art of 
Chester than in that of Coventry, but in both a cruder sense of the humour of 
incident than in the other English cycles. In the York cycle there are fewer 
situations that may be called purely comic than in the Chester, and none of 
these occurs in the oldest plays of the series ; but for its other contributions to 
dramatic art and its relation to the remarkable productions of the Wakefield or 
Towneley school of comedy it deserves special attention. A comparative 
study of its versification, phraseology and dramatic technique, leads me to 
the conclusion that the original didactic kernel of the York cycle was en- 



of English Comedy xxv 

larged and enriched during two well-defined periods, which may be termed 
the middle and the later, and that there was at least one playwright in each of 
these periods or schools who distinctly made for the development of English 
comedy. Of the middle period, to which belong Cain, Noah, and the Shep- 
herds'* Plays y the playwright or playwrights are characterized by an unsophisti- 
cated humour ; the distinctive playwright of the later or realistic period is 
marked by his observation of life, his reproduction of manners, his dialogue, 
and the plasticity of his technique. That the later school or period, to which 
belongs a group of half a dozen plays ^ gathering about The Dream of Pilate' s 
Wife, and The Trial before Herod, was, moreover, influenced by the manner 
of its predecessor is indicated by the fact that of its two most efficient stanzaic 
forms one, namely that used in The Conspiracy, is anticipated (though in sim- 
pler iambic beat) by that of Noah, the typical play of the middle, that is the first 
comic, school,^ while the other, of which the variants are found in The Mor- 
tificacio and The Second Trial, has its germ more probably in The Cayme 
of that same school than in any other of the middle or of the earlier plays. ^ 
With these two stanzaic forms the later group, so far as we may conclude 
from the mutilated condition of the surviving plays, seems to experiment ; 
and the second of them, that of the Mortificacio, may be regarded as the final 
and distinctive outcome of York versification. To the leading playwrights 
of each of these schools, — the former the best humorist, the latter the best 
realist, of the York drama, — to these anonymous composers of the most facile 
and vivid portions of the York cycle our comedy owes a still further debt ; for 
from them it would appear that a poet of undoubted genius derived something 
of his inspiration and much of his method and technique — our first great comic 
dramatist, the Playwright of Wakefield. 

We know that Wakefield actors sometimes played in the Corpus Christi 
plays of York, and it was only natural that the smaller town should borrow 
from the dramatic riches of its metropolitan neighbour. We are, therefore, 
not surprised to find in the Wakefield cycle a number of plays which have 
been taken bodily from the York cycle. ^ None of these is in the distinctive 
stanzaic form of which we have just spoken ; but imbedded in certain other 

1 V. XXVI., XXVIII., XXIX., XXX., XXXI., XXXIII. 5 probably XXXII. Per- 
haps this playwright (if we may use the singular) rewrote XXXIV. I think he remodelled 
XXXV. and XXXVI., in the old metres. 

2 XXVI., The Conspiracy, and IX., iVo^/?), — abab a bab^c dec c d^, 

3 XXXVI. , The Mortificacio, — a b a b b c b c3 ^1 e e e2 d^. 

VII. , The Cayme, — a b a b b c* ^1 b c c* ^2. 

4 Y. XL, W. VIII. ; Y. XXII., W. XVIII. ; Y. XXXVII., W. XXV. ; Y. 
XXXVIII., W. XXVI. 5 Y. XLVIII., W. XXX. For particulars see Miss Lucy Toulmin 
Smith, Pollard, Hohlfeld's Die Altenglischen Kollektivmisterien, Anglia XL 



xxvi An Historical View 

Wakefield plays ^ that in other respects show marks of derivation from earlier 
and discarded portions of the York cycle, we find occasional affiliated forms of 
the distinctive later York strophe evidendy in a transitional period of its devel- 
opment. We find, furthermore, passages in this transitional York strophe side 
by side with Wakefield stanzas which display the strophe in a more highly 
artistic technique than anything found in the York.^ The writer of the per- 
fected York- Wakefield stanza, such as appears in the Towneley plays, must 
have, consciously or unconsciously, been influenced by the middle and later 
York schools of dramatic composition. This fully developed outcome of the 
distinctive York stanza of the later school is found in the guise o'i a nine-line 
stanza in certain Towneley plays which we see reason for attributing to a 
Wakefield genius, and which we shall presendy consider. Suffice it in this 
place to say that of the Wakefield stanza the first four lines, when resolved, 
according to their internal rhymes, into separate verses, run thus : a b a b a b a b^. 
If to this we add the cauda, our stanza runs a b a b a b a b^ c^ d d d^ c^. Some- 
times, indeed, a three-accented fine occurs among the first eight, showing the 
more plainly that this thirteen-line stanza of Wakefield (though set down in 
nine lines) is a variant or derivadve of the thirteen-line York XXXVI., — ■ 
a b ab b c b c^d^e e e^d^. And that in itself is, as I have already said, a 
refinement upon the fourteen-line stanza of the earlier comic school of York, 
as used in the Noah. Whether the rapid beat and frequently recurring rhyme 
of the Wakefield are a conscious elaboration of the York or a happy find or 
accident, the stanzaic result is an accurate index to the superiority in spirit 
and style achieved over their congeners of York by these comedies of Wake- 
field. 

Now, the contiguity of what is undoubtedly borrowed from the York 
with what is imitated from it and what is elaborated upon it, is strong proof 
of a conscious relation between these Wakefield productions and those of York ; 
and since the work of the poet, especially the provincial poet, was in those 
days (though verse forms, like air, are free to all) likely to be cast in a fixed 
mould — his favourite metrical and strophaic medium, there is at any rate a 
possibility that the plays and pordons of plays in the Wakefield cycle, writ- 
ten in this fully developed and disdnctive stanza, were the work of one man. 
When we examine the contents of the plays and their style, we find that 
the possibility becomes more than a probability, pracdc'ally a certainty ; and that 

1 Such as stanza 57 in Wakefield XXIX. Ascension, and 97-100 in Wakefield XX. 
Conspiracy. 

2 cf. stanzas i to 4 with those that follow in Wakefield XXII., Fflagellacio ; and stanza 6 
of Wakefield XXIV. with those that precede it; and stanza 58 of Wakefield XXIX. with 
stanza 57. 



of English Comedy xxvii 

being so, I can hardly deem it an accident that the most dramatic portions of 
the Wakefield cycle show so close an external resemblance to the best comic 
and realistic portions of the York. It is, then, with something of the interest 
in an individual, not a theory, that one may segregate the plays and bits of 
plays bearing this metrical stamp, look for the personality behind them, and 
attempt to discover the relation of the Wakefield group of comedies to its fore- 
runners of York. 

The Wakefield cycle is still in flux when its distinctive poet-humorist 
takes it in hand. Insertions in his nine-line stanza are found in one ^ of 
the five plays derived from the York cycle. Of the two plays which show 
a general resemblance to a corresponding York, one ^ is in this stanza, 
and to the other ^ a dozen of the stanzas are prefixed. The Fflageilacio 
(XXII.), the second half of which is an imitation, sometimes loose, some- 
times literal, of York XXXIV. (^Christ Led up to Calvary), opens with 
twenty-three of these stanzas, — nearly the whole of the original part. One 
of them. No. 25, is, by the way, based upon stanza 2 of that part of 
York XXXIV. which is not taken over by the Wakefield play. In the Wake- 
field Ascensio?i (XXIX.), which adapts, but in no slavish manner, a few pas- 
sages from the York (XLIIL), we find two of this playwright's nine-line 
stanzas ;^ and in the Wakefield Crucifixion (XXIII.), which has some slight 
reminiscence of York XXXV. and XXXVI., we find one. In that part of the 
Wakefield less directly, or not at all,. connected with the York cycle, four 
whole plays, ^ the Processus Noe, the two Shepherds' Plays, and the Buffeting, 
and occasional portions of other plays ^ are written in this stanza. This con- 
tribution in the nine-line stanza amounts to approximately one-fourth of the 
cycle ; and, allowing for modifications due to oral and scribal transmission, is 
of one language and phraseology. Not merely the identity of stanza and 
diction, however, leads one to suspect an identity of authorship ; but the 
prevalence in all these passages, and not in others, of spiritual characteristics 
in approximately the same combination, — realistic and humorous qualities 
singularly suitable to the development of a vigorous national comedy. **If 
any one," says Mr. Pollard, " will read these plays together, I think he can- 
not fail to feel that they are all the work of the same writer, and that this 
writer deserves to be ranked — if only we knew his name ! — at least as high 
as Langland, and as an exponent of a rather boisterous kind of humour had 

IXXX. Judicium, stanzas 16 to 48, 68 to 76. 

2 XVI. Herod. 4 Stanza 57 might just as well be arranged like stanza 58. 

3 XX. a, Conspiracy. & III., XII., XIII., XXI. 

6 Minor passages in the nine-line stanza are II., 35, 36; XXIV., r-5, 56-59; XXVII., 4. 
Passages in a closely similar stanza are XXII., 1-4; XXIII., a ; XXVII., 30. 



XXVlll 



An Historical View 



no equal in his own day." And, speaking of the Mactacio Abel, where we 
lack the evidence of identity of metre, this authority continues, '* The extraor- 
dinary youthflilness of the play and the character of its humour make it diffi- 
cult to dissociate it from the work of the author of the Shepherds' Plays, and 
I cannot doubt that this, also, at least in part, must be added to his credit." ^ 

To this conclusion I had come before reading Mr. Pollard's significant 
introduction to the Towneley Plays ; and I may say that I had suspected the 
Wakefield master in the Processus Talentorum as well ; for though, with the 
exception of some insertions, the stanzaic form of that pageant is not his 
favourite, the humour, dramatic method, and phraseology of the whole are 
distinctly reminiscent of him. In the revising and editing of the Wakefield 
cycle as he found it this playwright was brought into touch with the York 
schools of comic and realistic composition. What he derived from them 
and what he added may be gathered from a comparative view of the related 
portions of these cycles. That, however, I must defer until another time. 
The best of his plays are of course the Noe and the Secunda Pastor um ; 
the latter a product of dramatic genius. It stands out English and alone, 
with its homespun philosophy and indigenous figures, — Mak and Gyll and 
the Shepherds, — its comic business, its glow, its sometimes subtle irony, 
its ludicrous colloquies, its rural life and manners, its naive and wholesome 
reverence : with these qualities it stands apart from other plays of cycles for- 
eign or native, and in its dramatic anticipations, postponements, and surprises 
is our earliest masterpiece of comic drama. A similar dramatic excellence 
characterizes all this poet's plays, as well as the insertions made by him in other 
plays. But he is no more remarkable for his dramatic power than for his sen- 
sitive observation and his satire. 

Of the realism of his art much might be said. To be sure, we cannot 
accredit to him the grim photography of certain plays — the preparations for 
the crucifixion, for instance, which are the counterpart of scenes in the York. 
But the Buffeting proves his power in this direction, and parts of the Scourging 

— each a genre picture on a background of horrors. Of conversations 
caught from the lip those in the second and fourth scenes of the Processus 
Noe are his, and those between the shepherds in Prima and Secunda Pastorum, 

— all of them unique. So also the description of the dinners in these Shep- 
herds' Plays: the boar's brawn, cow's foot, sow's shank, blood puddings, 
ox-tail, swine's jaw, the good pie, ** all a hare but the loins," goose's leg, 
pork, partridge, tart for a lord, calf's liver "scored with the verjuice," and 
good ale of Ely to wash things down. What more seasonable than the after- 
thought of collecting the broken meats for the poor ? what more naive than the 

1 The Toivneley Plays, Introd., p. xxii. 



of English Comedy xxix 

"^light-spell in the name of the Crucified just preceding the angelic announce- 
ment of his birth ? what more typical of unquestioning faith than the rever- 
ence of these **Sely Shepherds" before the Saviour Child, the simplicity 
and acceptability of their rustic gifts ? This is the fresh and sympathetic 
handling of a well-worn theme. But the Wakefield poet is no sentimentalist : 
his anger burns as sudden as his pity. Otherwhere genially ironical, it is in his 
revision of the Judicium that he displays his full power as a satirist. Here 
his hatred of oppression, his scorn of vice and self-love, his contempt of sharp 
and shady practice in kirk or court, upon the bench, behind the counter, or 
by the hearth are welded into one and brought to edge and point. He strikes 
hard when he will, but he has the comic sense and spares to slay. We may 
hear him chuckhng, this Chaucerian ** professor of holy pageantry," as he 
pricks the bubble of fashion, lampoons Lollard and ** kyrkchaterar" alike, 
and parodies the latinity of his age. When his demons speak the syllables 
leap in rhythmic haste, the rhymes beat a tattoo, and the stanzas hurtle by. 
Manners, morals, folly, and loose living are writ large and pinned to the 
caitiff. But the poet behind the satire is ever the same, sound in his domestic, 
social, political philosophy, constant in his sympathy with the poor and in 
godly fear. 

Though there are comic scenes of some excellence in the later Chester 
and so-called Coventry plays, they add little to the variety of the Wakefield. 
I would, however, call attention to a few other comparatively modern, but, 
generally speaking, contemporaneous, characteristics of these and the remaining 
cycles : the foreshadowing of the chivalrous-romantic in the Joseph and Mary 
plays of York, Wakefield, and especially Coventry ; of the melodramatic in 
the wonder and medieval magic of the York and Chester cycles, and again 
especially in the Coventry ; of the allegorical in the Coventry, and of the 
burlesque in all cycles when Pride rides for a fall or Cunning is caught in 
his own snare. 

In respect of the sensational, the older cycles are surpassed by the surviv- 
ing plays of Newcastle and Digby ; so also in the increasing complexity of 
motive and interest. These Digby plays were acted, probably one by one in 
some midland village from year to year during the latter half of the fifteenth 
century, and maybe somewhat earlier. They are of interest, not only because 
they emphasize the sensational element, but because they stand half-way, if not 
in time, at any rate in spirit and method, between the miracles that we have so 
far discussed and the moral plays of which we shall presendy treat. The Digby 
Killifig of the Children of Israel lends a decided impetus to the progress of 
the comic and secular tendencies of the drama. The Herod brags as usual, 
but he is artistically surpassed in his metier by a certain miles gloriosus, the 



XXX An Historical View 

descendant of Bumbommachides and Sir Launscler Depe, and himself the 
forerunner of Thersites and Roister Doister, and countless aspirants for 
knighthood, whose valour **begynnes to fayle and waxeth feynt " under 
the distaff of an angry wife. Such is the Watkyn of this Digby play. 
Both here and in the Conversion of St. Paul, the joyous element has been 
enhanced, as Dr. Furnivall points out, by the introduction of dancing and 
music. In the Conversion the charm supplied by the ammoniac Billingsgate 
of Saul's servant and the ostler adds thrills galore. Saul, '* goodly besene 
in the best wyse, like an aunterous knyth," the thunder and lightning, the 
persecutor felled to earth, ** godhed speking from hevyn," the Holy Ghost, 
the **dyvel with thunder and fyre " sitting cool upon a ** chayre in hell, 
another devyll with a fyeryng, cryeng and roryng," — the warning angel, 
Saul's escape, — there is sign enough of invention here. To be sure, these 
seductions are counterbalanced by a didactic on the Seven Deadly Sins, 
worthy of a preceding or contemporary moral drama ; but that was part of 
the bargain. The spectacular plays of this group, especially the Mary Mag- 
dalene, comic and didactic by turns, denote a further advance in a still dif- 
ferent direction. They portray character in process of formation : the rejec- 
tion of former habits and motives, and the adoption of new, the resulting 
change of conduct, and the growth of personality. From this point of 
view Mary Magdalene is a figure of as rare distinction in the history of ro- 
mantic comedy as the Virgin Mary, — perhaps even of greater importance. 
Interesting as the sensational elements of the play may have been, and novel — 
the vital novelty here is that of character growing from within. Wonderful 
as the career of the virgin mother was, — an essential propedeutic to that 
woman worship which characterizes a broad realm of Christian romance, — 
her career could never have awakened the peculiar interest, dramatic and 
humane, that was stirred by the legend so often dramatized of the wayward, 
tempted, falling, but finally redeemed and sainted Mary of Magdala. 

With regard to the transitional, character of the Digby plays, it has been 
maintained that this particular play, combining materials of the biblical miiracle 
and the saint's play or marvel, approaches more nearly than any other of the 
group to the morals and moral interludes, because of the prominence of the 
Sensual Sins in the dramatic career of the Magdalene. Professor Cushman, 
in his excellent thesis on The Devil and the Vice, even asserts that the down- 
fall of the heroine, as the result of sensual temptation which is the office of 
seven personified deadly sins **arayyd lyke vij dylf," is a special 'develop- 
ment ' of this play. I can hardly go so far : the church of the Middle 
Ages, Caxton's Golden Legend of 1483, and Voragine's of 1270-90 had 
already amalgamated the biblical narratives of the Mary of seven devils, Mary 



J 



of English Comedy xxxi 

of Bethany, and the woman who was a sinner. In fact, the suggestion of 
the * device,' if such was necessary, is contained in seven consecutive lines 
of Caxton's Life of the Magdalene i This biblical and legendary play is, 
however, undoubtedly well on the way toward the drama of the conflict 
of good and evil for possession of the human soul. And this appears, as the 
author just cited has pointed out, when we consider a later work on the same 
subject, called a Moral Interlude, by Lewis Wager. Although the Seven 
Deadly Sins no longer figure as such, their place is here supplied by four 
characters, — Infidelitie the Vice, and his associates. Pride of Life, Cupiditie, 
and Carnal Concupiscence, — who, arrayed like gallants, instruct the Magda- 
lene in their several follies, and are themselves all ** children of Sathan." 
These later Vices are nothing other than selected Deadly Sins, — the Pride, 
the Covetyse, and the Lechery of the earlier miracle play. 



3. The Dramatic Value of the English Miracle Plays 

Taken as a whole, the craft cycle possesses the significance, continuity, 
and finality requisite to dramatic art ; taken in its parts or pageants, how- 
ever, it presents to the modern reader the appearance of a mosaic, an his- 
torical panel picture, or stereopticon show. I set down these words, **the 
modern reader," because I do not beheve that the audience of contemporaries 
was aware of any break in the sequence of the collective spectacle. This 
histrionic presentment of the biblical narrative lacked neither motive nor 
method to the generations of the ages of belief. For them the history of the 
world was thus unrolled in episodes the opposite of disconnected, — each a 
hint or sign or sample, a type or antitype of the scheme of salvation, which 
was itself import and impulse of all history. No serious scene, but was 
confirmation or prophecy. Characters, institutions, and events of the Old- 
Testament drama had their raison d* etre not only in themselves but in tne 
New Testament antitype which each in turn prefigured. No profound theo- 
logical training was needed to comprehend each symbol and its significance, to 
esteem all as centring in the Person of history, in the sacrifice and atonement. 
And still it is largely because historians have failed to appreciate the scriptural 
training of our ancestors that they have unfairly emphasized the episodic nature 
of the miracle cycles, at any rate of the English. 

The integral quality of the English cycle is infinitely superior to that 
of the French ; and the separate plays are more frequently artistic units. 
This is due, among other things, to facts long ago pointed out by Ebert.' 

1 D/e englhchen Mysterien, Jahrb. rom. u. eng. Lit.^ I, 153. 



xxxii An Historical View 

The smaller stage in England, which in turn restricted the scope of the play, 
made it impossible to split up the action into two or more parallel movements, 
such as frequently occupied the stage in France. The scene, moreover, was 
in England limited to earth, save when the plot expressly required the presen- 
tation of heaven or hell. It very rarely required all three at once. The 
conduct of the English play is therefore less dependent upon the supernatural, 
and the persons bear a closer resemblance to actual human beings. Neither 
plot nor character is distracted by the irresponsible intrusion of devils, whereas 
these, idling about the French stage, frequently turned the action into horse-play, 

— if the fool (likewise absent from the English miracle) had not already turned 
it into a farce out of all relation to the fable. The comic element in the Eng- 
lish play had to exist by virtue of its relation to the main action or not at all. 
It was therefore compelled to conquer its position within the artistic bounds of 
the drama. The comic scenes of the EngHsh miracle should accordingly be 
regarded, not as interruptions, nor independent episodes, but as harmonious 
counterpoint or dramatic rehef. Those who have witnessed in recent times 
the reproduction of the Secunda Pastorum at one of the American universities 
bear testimony to the propriety and charm, as well as the dramatic effect, 
with which the foreground of the sheep-steaHng fades into the radiant picture 
of the nativity. The pastoral atmosphere is already shot with a prophetic 
gleam , the fulfilment is, therefore, no shock or contrast, but a transfiguration 

— an epiphany. I do not forget that a less humorous analogue of the Shep- 
herds* Play exists in such French mysteries as that of the Conception^ but I call 
attention to the fact that by devices, technical sometimes, sometimes naive, 
elaborated through the centuries in response to the demands of a popular 
aesthetic consciousness, the cycles, preeminently in England, acquired a deli- 
cacy and variety of colour, an horizon, and an atmosphere, not only as wholes, 
but in the parts contributing to the whole. 

It is, therefore, only with reservation that I can concur with what one of 
our most scientific and suggestive historians has said concerning the dramatic 
qualities of the English miracle play : ^ ** In the mystery, not only were 
the subject and the idea unalterable, but the way in which the subject and 
idea affected each other was equally unchangeable. The power of ex- 
pression was exceedingly defective. The idea in the finished work still 
seemed to be something strange and external — conception and execution 
did not correspond. It is only by a whole cycle that the subject could 
be exhausted, and this cycle was composed of the most heterogeneous ele- 
ments, and is, in fact, a work of accident. The cycle play very seldom 
formed a unit or whole ; it seldom contained anything that could be called 

iTen Brink, Eng. Lit. II: i. 306. 



of English Comedy xxxiii 

a dramatic action. The spectators were therefore interested only in the 
matter. Only a few details made any aesthetic eiFect — such as character, 
situation, scenes ; the whole was rarely or never dramatic. ' ' I will grant 
that, since the subject of the individual pageant was prescribed by tradition, 
and the solution of the dramatic problem already fixed, the author did not always 
penetrate the shell of his story and assimilate the conception. Consequently 
the execution has frequently the faults of the ready-made suit of clothes : it 
creases where it should fall free and breaks where it should embrace. As the 
writer is not expected to exercise his invention, the onlooker estimates the 
conduct of the fable as a spectacle, not as a revelation. Many of the miracles, 
therefore, lack the element of dramatic surprise, and almost none attempts 
anything in the way of character development. This is, in part, because, 
severally, the plays are squares of an historical chessboard, upon which the 
individual — king or pawn — is merely a piece ; and even if the board be not 
historic, the squares are over strait for the gradual deploy of motive ; many of 
these plays are scenes, consequently, and limited to single crises of an indi- 
vidual life. In other words, the character, if familiar, is regarded as an instru- 
ment toward a well-known end ; if unfamiliar, as an apparition momentarily 
vivid. Slight opportunity exists for interplay of incident and character, for 
the production of conduct, in short, which is the resultant of character and a 
crisis. It must also be conceded that, since each play was the dear delight 
of its proprietary gild — and each rare performance thereof the chance that 
should grace these craftsmen ever or disgrace them quite — the effort of actor, 
if not always of playwright, was towards a speedy and starding effect, such as 
might be procured by the extraneous quality of the show, rather than by the 
story in itself or in its relation to the cycle. 

But still we must be careful not to generalize from a play here and there 
to the quality of a cycle as a whole or to the common qualities of various cycles. 
When we say that the mysteries, that is, the scriptural miracles, possessed 
this, that, or the other merit or defect, to what area and what object does the 
remark apply ? Do we refer to all the extant plays, or only to the one hun- 
dred and fifty plays in the five cycles that may be called complete ? Do we 
draw the inference from a majority oi all plays that might fall within the pur- 
view, or from the plays of one cycle, or from a majority of the plays in that 
cycle, or from a single striking example here or there in one or another cycle 
or fragmentary collection ? Do we draw the inference from, or apply the 
conclusion indiscriminately to, later as well as earlier cycles and plays t A 
generalization from the Chester does not prima facie fit the Towneley, nor 
does a dramatic estimate of the Coventry characterize the isolated miracle 
morals of the Digby. Between the composition of the earliest and the latest 



XXXIV 



An Historical View 



of the Chester plays alone, centuries elapsed ; centuries between the earliest 
Coventry and the earliest Digby ; generations between Chester and Coven- 
try plays upon the same subject, and generations more between the York and 
Newcastle. York includes some of the youngest pageants of the species and 
many of the oldest. Towneley is generally later than York ; but it some- 
times retains an original which York had long ago discarded for something 
more modern. Returning, therefore, to Professor ten Brink's generaliza- 
tion, we must submit that most of the defects which he lays at the door of the 
cyclic miracle were not inherent in the species, but incidental to the period. 
Some attach to the crudeness of the playwright, some to the simplicity of the 
audience ; they no doubt attached to the collective ** morals " of the fourteenth 
century, such as the Paternoster Play^ and they would have characterized 
plays of any other species attempted under like conditions. The best miracle 
plays are as mature products of dramatic art as the best of the allegorical kind, 
except in one point only — the development of character. That *«the sub- 
ject and its idea should be unalterable " and their interrelation fixed, is by no 
means a peculiarity of the scriptural play, but a characteristic of period or 
place. If the reader will cast even a rapid glance by way of comparison 
over the French Corpus of mysteries and the English, he will observe that the 
scope of subjects possible to a rehgious cycle was amenable to widely different 
conditions of restriction, selection, and enlargement, and that the treatment of 
the same and similar subjects was infinitely varied. To illustrate at length 
would be a work of supererogation. Everybody knows that the French cycles 
have plays upon subjects, the Job, for instance, and Tobias and Esther,^ not 
touched by the English, — at any rate when in their prime ; and that the 
same subject or episode is frequently treated in a way dissimilar to the Eng- 
lish. When we turn to details we note likewise the independence of the 
playwright : none of the English plays avails itself, for instance, of Adam* s 
difficulty in swallowing the apple, though the incident figures both in 
Le Mistere de la Nathite and that of the Fiel Testament ; nor of the attrac- 
tive possibiHties of Reuben and Rachel's maid, Joseph and Potiphar's wife, 
Solomon and the Oueen of Sheba, and many another conjunction known to 
all readers of the French religious play. And these discrepancies between 
national cycles hold true even where, as in the case of the Chester plays, 
the influence of the French mysteries of the thirteenth century and of the 
later collections is in other respects evident. Of the four English cycles, 
moreover, each does not select exactly the same subjects for its pageants as 
the others, — Balaam and his Ass, for instance, appear only in the Chester, 

II do not forget that belated Tobias at Lincoln, 1564-66, nor the Godly ^een Hester 
of 1561 ; but they have ntrthing to do with the clise. 



of English Comedy xxxv 

— nor do all introduce the same incidents in the handling of a common 
subject. 

Professor ten Brink is by no means alone in his estimate of the technical 
quality of the English scriptural miracle, but I must say that the estimate 
seems to me to be hardly up to the deserts of the species. The frequent 
absence of such refinements as the unities of time and place was of the essence 
both of play and period ; but it was not of the essence of the miracle cycle 
that the expression should be defective, or that conception and execution 
should fail to correspond, or of the miracle play that it should be unable eco- 
nomically and adequately to develop a dramatic action and produce an artistic 
whole. It may be an insufficient argument to say that the plays of the 
Wakefield dramatist are anything but defective in expression. Let us, there- 
fore, be somewhat more comprehensive in the scope of inquiry. I have gone 
carefully through the four English cycles with Professor ten Brink's censures 
in mind, and I conclude that at least twenty of the individual plays have cen- 
tral motive, consistent action, and well-rounded dramatic plot. Indeed I 
think a good case might be made for thirty. That would be to say that one- 
fifth of the miracles of the great cycles were artistic units in themselves, and 
must have interested their spectators, not alone by the materials displayed, but 
by a subject that meant something, and situations, scenes, and acting char- 
acters by which it was sometimes not at all unworthily presented. The 
inheritors of English literature will indeed carry away a false impression of 
the artistic achievements of their ancestors, if they believe that in spite of a 
development of five hundred years the miracle play was ** rarely or never 
dramatic. ' ' 

Even though the sacred and traditional character of the biblical narrative 
must have exercised a restraint upon the comic tendencies of the cyclic poet 
not likely to have existed in the case of the writers of saints' plays and single 
morals, still it is when he attempts the comic that the cyclic poet is most 
independent. For as soon as plays have passed into the hands of the gilds, 
the playwright puts himself most readily into sympathy with the literary con- 
sciousness as well as the untutored aesthetic taste of his public when he colours 
the spectacle, old or new, with what is preeminently popular and distinctively 
national. In the minster and out of it, all through the Christian year, the towns- 
folk of York and Chester had as much of ritual, of scriptural narrative, and tragic 
mystery as they wanted, and probably more ; when the pageants were acted, 
they listened with simple credulity, no doubt, to the sacred history, and with a 
reverence that our age of illumination can neither emulate nor understand ; — 
but with keenest expectation they awaited the invented episodes where tradi- 
tion tonformed itself to familiar life, — the impromptu sallies, the cloth-yard 



xxxvi An Historical View 

shafts of civic and domestic satire sped by well-known wags of town or 
gild. Of the appropriateness of these insertions, spectators made no question, 
and the dramatists themselves do not seem to have thought it necessary to 
apologize for esthetic creed or practice. The objections thereto proceeded 
from the authorities of the church, but the very tenor and tone of them are a 
testimony to the importance attained by the comic element in the religious 
plays. It is principally the **bourdynge and japynge " which attended the 
**pleyinge of Goddis myraclys and werkes," that called forth the wrath of 
the sermon that I have already cited from the end of the fourteenth century.^ 
And it was for similar reasons that Bishop Wedego- ordered, in 1471, the 
suppression of both passion play and saints' plays within his continental dio- 
cese. In France, indeed, not only horse-play characterized the performance 
of the mysteries, but absolutely irrelevant farces invaded them, merely afin que 
le jeu soit mains fade et plus plaisans. 

I have alluded to the distinctively national note that characterizes the comic 
contributions to the sacred plays, and I find that my opinion is confirmed by 
the examples cited by Klein and Creizenach. The French mystery poets, 
while they develop, Hke the English, the comic quahty of the shepherd scenes, 
introduce the drinking and dicing element ad lib., — and sometimes the 
drabbing ; they make, moreover, a specialty of the humour of deformity, a 
characteristic which appears nowhere in the English plays. The Germans, 
in their turn, elaborate a humour peculiar to themselves, — elephantine, prim- 
itive, and personal. They seem to get most fun out of reviling the idiosyn- 
crasies of Jews, whose dress, appearance, manners, and speech they caricature, 
— even introducing Jewish dramatis persona to sing gibberish, exploit cunning, 
and perform obscenities under the names of contemporary citizens of the 
hated race. In general a freer rein seems to have been given to the sacrile- 
gious, grotesque, and obscene on the Continent than in England. In the Pas- 
sion of A. Greban (before 1452), Herod orders Jesus into the garb of a 
fool ; and in some of the German plays the judges dance about the cross upon 
which the Saviour hangs. Much of the ribaldry was of course impromptu, 
and on that account the more grotesque ; as in the story related by Bebel oi 
how a baker playing the part of Christ in the Processus Crucis bore the gibes 
of his tormentors with admirable composure, until one actor Jew insisted 
upon calhng him a corn thief, — *'Shut up," retorted the Christ, **or 
I'll come down and break your head with the cross." There is, of course, 
an occasional hcense in the Enghsh plays, such as the dance about the cross 
in the Coventry ; but the excess of ribaldry, grotesquerie, and diablerie does 
not assault the imagination as in the continental mysteries. 

1 Rel. Antiq. II. 43. 



of English Comedy xxxvii 



4. The Contribution of Later " Marvels " and Early Secular Plays 

The advance which remained to be made upon the quality of play pre- 
sented in the miracle cycle before England could have an artistic comedy were 
threefold : first, from the collective to the single play ; secondy from the 
reproduction of traditional or accidental events to the selection of such as 
possessed significance and continuity ; and thirdy from the employment of 
the remote in material and interest to the employment of the immediate and 
familiar. 

To attribute to the allegorical play all improvements that were made in 
this transition is a mistake. Some steps in the right direction were already 
necessitated by the popular demand, and had been taken by the later miracle 
plays before the allegorical drama had itself passed out of the experimental 
stages, — by the Digby Magdalene y for instance. In that play, the dramatic 
management of a plot, invented and romantic rather than scriptural in its 
nature and interest, and the portrayal of commonplace events and characters 
side by side with the occasional allegory, are evidence not only of contem- 
porary taste, but, as Mr. Courthope has said, of an artistic approach to the 
representation of fables of simple secular interest. The play, in fact, bears a 
close resemblance to and was apparently influenced by the popular life of 
St. Mary Magdalene which appeared in Caxton's translation of 1483 of the 
Golden Legend, — or perhaps by the French edition which Caxton follows, 
or the original of Voragine. In the St. Paul of the Digby collection we note 
a similar fusion of secular and legendary material, and an imaginative handling 
of the plot. Although the dramatist has buried his opportunities of psycho- 
logical invention in the apostle's homily upon the deadly sins, he has at the 
same time crossed the border of the ** moral play" rich with psychological 
opportunity. In the same direction of advance various steps had also been 
taken by other saints' plays, purely legendary, like the Sancta Katharina 
already mentioned, and by such a * marvel ' as the Sacrament Play, or 
Miracle of the Host, which we shall presently describe. A movement in 
advance had, moreover, been made by our early secular drama, which com- 
prised, besides the farce interlude prepared by scholars for profane consump- 
tion, like the Interludium de Clerico et Puella, certain popular festival plays, 
for instance, the Hox Tuesday and Robin Hoody and plays of saints turned 
national heroes hke St. George and St. Edward. 

Concerning the plays of the miracles of saints I have already expressed 
the belief that, whether these workers of marvels got off with their lives or 
not, the representations in which they figured were, generally speaking, of the 



xxxviii An Historical View 

essence of comedy : the persistent optimism which in the end routs the spectres 
of temptation, persecution, and unbelief. This would hold, with even greater 
probability, of the purely legendary miracles, the nature of which is, of course, 
that of popular religious thought and faith in the Middle Ages, and is embalmed 
for us in the Golden Legend, in Eusebius and St. Jerome, and other writers 
from whom the legend was derived. In spite of their exceeding interest, 
these legendary saints' plays and pageants can be considered in this place only 
with brevity ; but in order that the reader may better appreciate the variety 
of their subjects and the extent of the period over which they were acted, I 
subjoin a list of some that we know to have been presented.^ 

I have little doubt that the romantic combination of tragic, marvellous, and 
comic later noticeable upon the Elizabethan stage was in some degree due to 
the ancient and continuous dramatization of the irrational adventures, blood- 
curdling tortures, and dissonant emotions afforded by the legends of the saints. 
These * marvels,' moreover, must, because of their early emancipation from 
ecclesiastical restraints and their adoption by the folk, have contributed to the 
development of the freely invented, surprising, and amusing fable v^hich is 
congenial to comedy. That we have not more notices of them is owing, not 
to their insignificance nor to any disappearance before the advancing popu- 
larity of the craft cycles, for even the pageants of the saints still flourish in 
Aberdeen as late as i 5 3 i , and the plays elsewhere much later, but, as Ebert 
has already noted, to the fact that they were seldom presented with the mag- 
nificence and publicity of the cyclic miracles ; but whenever a saint's play is 
taken up by a city or gild, it enjoys frequent official notice and maintains its 
dignity for years. 

Passing to the marvel or miracle of the Host, we notice that only one 
in our language has survived. This Play of the Blyssyd Sacrament bears 
the name of one of the East Midland Croxtons, and it was composed between 
1 46 1 and 1500. Although some critics have a low opinion of the play, I 
venture to say that it is one of the most important in the early history of Eng- 

1 St. Katharine (Dunstable c. 1 100, Coventry, 1490) ; St. George (141 5 and later); 
St. Laurence (Lincoln, 1441); St. Susanna (Lincoln, 1447) ; St. Clara (Lincoln, 1455) 5 
St. Edward (Coventry, 1456 and later) ; St. Christian (Coventry, 1504) ; St. Christina 
(Bethersdenin Kent, 1522) 5 Sts. Crispin and Crispinian (Dublin, 1528) ; St. Ola've (London, 
1557). Some of these were church plays, like the St. Olave ; some, like the St. Katharine^ 
were school plays ; some, craft plays, like the St. Crispin. It is hard sometimes to distinguish 
between the play and the mumming or the mute pageant ; to the dumb show may be assigned 
some of the St. Georges and the pageants of Fabyan, Sebastian, and Botulf, displayed, in 1564, by 
the religious gild of Holy Trinity' (St. Botolph without Aldersgate). For some conception of 
the frequency and vitality of such shows one need only turn to Hone, Stow's Sur-vey, the 
Records of Aberdeen, Toulmin Smith's English Gilds, the History of Dublitij Davidson's 
English Mystery Plays, and other books of this kind. 



of English Comedy xxxix 

iish comedy. The subject, the desecration by Jews of a wonder-working 
Wafer and the discomfiture and ultimate conversion of the offenders, is popular 
in the legend of the later Middle Ages.^ With ours a Dutch Sacrament Play, 
written about the year i 500 by Smeken and acted in Breda, naturally calls 
for comparison ; but, though the latter exhibits the miraculous power of the 
Host and has a certain diabolic humour, it lacks altogether the realism, the 
popular reproduction of Jewish malignity, and the effective close of the Crox- 
ton. The Croxton avails itself of the possibilities of the subject. The idea 
has a significance ; the plot possesses legitimate motive, due proportions, unity 
ethical and aesthetic ; and the conclusion is happy. The mood, by turns 
serious and comic, and the dramatis personcBy various and well-characterized, 
combine to furnish a most diverting drama of the wonderful, horrible, elevated, 
and commonplace. Colle's announcement of his master the leech, ** a man off 
alle syence,*' who **syttyth with sum tapstere in the spence," is excellently 
ironical ; and Master Brundych himself, like the doctor in the St. George plays, 
must have furnished a figure exactly suited to the popular taste. Nor is 
the realism confined to the intentionally comic scenes ; but it is as vividly 
successful in the corruption of Aristorius by Jonathas and in the futile and 
richly avenged efforts of the Jews to torture the Host. Here certainly was a 
play adapted to meet the demands of its time, — exhibiting closer affiliation 
with the folk than with church or patron or school, acted perhaps by strolling 
players, an unforced product of the artistic consciousness ; a play which, 
though it dealt with a sacred subject, still focussed itself in a single plot, dis- 
carded all material, sacred or historical, not available for its purpose, com- 
pleted an alliance with the natural and the familiar, and emphasized the 
comic realities of life. No miracle, cyclic or individual, no allegorical drama, 
and no secular play of the same or previous date excels the Croxton in dra- 
matic concept and constructive skill. Without the mediation offered by such 
Croxton plays, the English drama would have had ** old " bridging the space 
between miracles, marvels, and morals of the earlier time and the comedy of 
Shakespeare. 

The consideration of our early farce interludes may be conveniently post- 
poned for the present in favour of the more popular plays, or shows, with 
which our forefathers celebrated festival occasions. Of the pageants in honour 
of royal entries, to which reference l^as already been made, it is impossible to 
say more here than that, developing gradually into dramatic spectacles, and at 
the same time retaining their symbolic character, they must have contributed 
to the taste for allegorical plays, the moral, and the moral interlude. If we 

1 German ballads on the subject in 1337 and 1478. A case similar to the material of this 
drama is assigned to 1478 in Train's Oticb. d. Jadeti in Regemburg^ pp. 11 6-1 17. 



xl An Historical View 

turn to the secular shows presented on regular festivals, such as May-day, 
Hox Tuesday, and the Eve of St. John and St. Peter, while we may at once 
conclude that they were less efficient as dramas than some of which we have 
spoken, such as the Sacrament play, they have the advantage, from our pres- 
ent point of view, of indicating more directly the nature of popular demand and 
the primitive conditions of popular art. Indeed, Dodsley regards the mum- 
mers who commonly acted them as the earliest genuine comedians of England. 
Of such disguisings, masks, and mummeries there is evidence in the Ward- 
robe Accounts of 1389, according to which a company of twenty-one men 
was disguised as the Ancient Order of the Coif for a play before the king at 
Christmas ; and of other mummings — not satiric nor in mockery of church 
ritual, but genial — we have mention in Stow and citations in Warton and 
Collier that take us to the first half of the fourteenth century. They doubt- 
less existed much earlier, though I do not think that they anticipated the 
parodies of sacred rites or the ecclesiastical saints' plays. 

Naturally a much-loved figure in festival games was Robin Hood, and that 
some kind of drama was made out of the ballads surrounding him is proved 
by a Ms. fragment of 1475 or earlier of Robin Hood and the Knight^ and a 
play of Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar with a portion of Robin Hood and 
the Pottery printed by Copland, in 1550, as **very proper to be played in 
May-games." ^ These May-games occurred not only in May, but June, and 
gave employment to St. George and the Dragon, the Nine Worthies (at 
whom Shakespeare poked fun in Lovers Labour'' s Lost), the morris-dance, 
with its Lords and Ladies of the May, giant, hobby-horse, and sometimes 
devils, as well as to Robin and Little John, Maid Marian, and Friar Tuck ; 
and they were popular through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, perhaps 
even earlier. If we may trust old Fenn's editing, Sir John Paston wrote in 
1473 of a man whom he had kept for three years to play **Seynt Jorge and 
Robyn Hod and the ShryfF off Nottingham." There may be even earlier 
mention of such plays. For, with all deference to the best of authorities. 
Professor Child, I cannot but think that when Bower wrote, between 1441 
and 1447, of the popular ''comedies and tragedies" of Robertus Hode et 
Litill Joharine, he had reference to acted plays, since he took pains to specify 
in his account of them the mimiy as well as the bardani who chanted them. 
These entertainments, he says, were then more popular than any other, and 
it is only natural to suppose that they had existed long before his time. The 
earliest mention of Robin in England is in Piers Plowman^ 1377, and then as 
the subject of a ballad ; but, as Warton long ago pointed out, pastoral plays 
of Robin et Marion had been given in France upon festival occasions before 

1 Child, Eng/isb and Scotch Popular Ballads, vol. III., pp. 44, 90, 127, 114. 



of English Comedy xli 

the end of the thirteenth century. Although there appears to be no similarity 
between the incidents of Adam de la Halle's comic opera of 1283 upon 
Robin and his Marion and the English stories, and although we are ignorant 
of the nature of the spring game, or play, of the same title, which was already 
an annual function in Anjou, in 1392, the principal characters and conditions of 
life in the iwo series are sufficiently similar to suggest a connection by deriva- 
tion or common source. If such connection exist, it is not impossible that 
some kind of Robin pageant or play was known in England earlier than we 
ordinarily think. The ballad plays, at any rate, had attained popularity long 
before an artistic level was reached by the allegorical drama, and while yet 
the craft cycles were in their prime. Stow, in respect of Mayings, which he 
leads us to believe were common in the reign of Henry VI., says that the 
citizens of London ** did fetch in May-poles with divers warlike shows, with 
good archers, morris-dancers, and other devices for pastime all the day long ; 
and towards the evening they had stage-plays and bonfires in the streets." 
Robin Hood and his archers are the heart of a Maying devised under 
Henry VII. in 1505 and for Henry VIII. in 1516 ; and the archers of the 
Maying in the time of Henry VI. are suggestive of the Robin Hood as an 
accepted figure for some kind of pageant in the middle of the fifteenth century, 
when Bower was writing of ** comedies and tragedies," mentioned above. 
The pageants and probably the plays of Robin Hood are still alive in the 
seventeenth century and later. Their dramatic quality was of a very primitive 
sort, but the plot, wherever existent, displayed sequence of motive and effect. 
The popular dramatist had, as in the Sacrament play and saints' plays, learned 
how to magnify a hero by making him the pivot of the action, how to interest 
the spectators in the affairs and manners of their own class, how to produce 
a comic effect by means of dialogue, as well as by the humour of the situation. 
But he knew nothing of the development of character, and in that respect, 
without doubt, was inferior to the contemporary author of the moral play. 

Passing the Hox Tuesday play, of which we cannot be sure that it was 
anything more than a crude and entirely serious representation of the historic 
massacre which it commemorated, and of which no adequate account survives, 
we may turn with profit to the most popular and long-lived of English festival 
dramas, the St. George play. Of this Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps says that 
numerous versions are used in the north of England, and that they are doubt- 
less a degraded form of an old ''mystery." ^ Of course, he means legendary 
miracle or saint's play. Ward more accurately describes this rural drama as a 
combination of miracle and processional pageant. As the latter, it appears 

1 In his introduction, Contributions to Early English Popular Literature, London, 1849, 
privately printed. 



xlii An Historical View 

frequently to have formed part of a mumming or disguising, and was early 
associated with the morris-dance of May-day or Christmas. The first indubi- 
table mention of a St. George pageant is in 141 6, and would appear to refer to 
a ** splendid dumb show" rather than a play, which, as Caxton tells us, was 
presented for the entertainment of Emperor Sigismund of Almayne when he 
** brought and gave the heart of St. George for a great and precious relique to 
King Harry the fifth." It is, however, more than probable that the soldier 
saint had figured in saints' plays, and in popular play and pageant, long before 
this time. He had been honoured in the eastern church even in the fourth 
century, and in England there had been churches and monasteries devoted to 
him before the Norman invasion. On account of his fabled services in the 
crusade he was already the patron of individual knights, and orders of chivalry 
and even of kingdoms, when Edward III., in the years 1348—50, built the 
chapel in his honour at Windsor, confirmed him as the saint and champion of 
England and instituted the order that still bears his name. It is likely, indeed, 
that the ludi exhibited before the same monarch at Christmas, 1348, were to 
some extent of St. George, for we read that the dragon figured extensively in 
them.^ And it would appear that when, in 141 5, the 23d April, St. George's 
Day, was ** made a major double feast and ordered to be observed the same as 
Christmas day, all labour ceasing," his play was no new thing. From that time 
on, at any rate, the procession of St. George was one of the ** pastimes yearly 
used," of which Stow tells us that they were celebrated ** with disguisings, 
masks, and mummeries." Gilds were organized in his name, and the cere- 
mony of * Riding the George ' spread over England. When Henry V. 
visited Paris, in 1420, he was appropriately welcomed with a St. George 
show, and the saint appears again in a pageant of 1474 performed at Coventry 
in honour of young Prince Edward. We have already mentioned Sir John 
Paston's reference to the play in 1473. A long-winded and serious German 
dramatization of the legend exists in an Augsburg manuscript of the end of the 
same century. In all probability the expensive miracle play of the saint that 
was acted in the croft or field at Bassingbourne in Cambridgeshire, in i 5 i i , was 
of the same didactic kind, but enlivened by impromptus of the villagers who 
took part. St. George and the dragon were features of the May-games at 
London, evidently in procession, as late as 1559. There appears in War- 
burton's list a play of St. George for England, by Wentworth Smith, of the 
first quarter of the seventeenth century, and in the latter part of that century, 
a droll called St. George and the Dragon was by way of being acted at Bar- 
tholomew Fair. The play seems from an early date to have been performed 
on the occasion of other festivals besides that of the Saint himself. 

1 Collier, Hht., vol. I., p. 29. 2 barton, H. E. P., vol. II., p. 72. 



of English Comedy xliii 

The versions of the play best known of recent years are the Oxfordshire, 
acted during the eighteenth century and taken down from an old performer 
in 1853, and the Lutterworth (Leicestershire) Christmas play, acted as late 
as 1863.^ Professor Child, in his Ballads, mentions another, which was 
regularly acted on All Souls' Day at a village a few miles from Chester. I 
would call attention, in addition, to four others of interest ; the Derbyshire 
Christmas play,^ acted by mummers as late as 1849, which is fuller than any 
other and appears to me to retain traces of a fifteenth-century original ; the 
two Bassingham (Lincoln) Christmas plays,^ 1823, and the Shetland play from 
a 1788 Ms., recounted in Scott's novel of The Pirate. The last three make 
the connection between the St. George play proper and the sword play, which 
was undoubtedly common in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and of which 
the Revesby version of 1779 is still extant.* 

The following is the outline of the Derbyshire play : Enter Prologue, who 
is apparently the same as *'noble soldier," ** Slasher," or "Jack," to clear 
a way for St. Gay. — Enter St. Gay, announcing himself with proper bombast, 
pretending that '*from England's ground he sprung and came," and stating 
his purpose, which is to find King George. — Enter King George, **in search 
of his enemy," St. Gay, who as *'a stranger, exposed and in danger," calls 
upon Slasher for help. — With loud words Slasher threatens King George, 
who in his turn boasts of "close escapes," giants and dragons subdued, and 
the King of Egypt's daughter won. — They fight, and Slasher ** tumbles 
down and dies." — Enter Doctor, who has *< travelled " imaginatively and can 
** fetch any dead man to life again." He begins with Slasher, who signalizes 
his recovery by summoning the ** Black Prince of Paradise, black Morocco 
king," to renew the fray. — ** Here am I," cries that hero ; it was I who 
**slew those seven Turks," and it is I who now will **jam King George's 
giblets full of holes. And in those holes put pebble stones ! " George doubts 
the Black Prince's ability, even though he be a ** champion's squire," — 
they are about to fight, when Prologue intervenes with ** Peace and Quietness 
is the best," and ** Enter in, owld Beelzebub ! " 'That personage on entering 
turns out to be, in dress, a kind of Devil and Vice combined, in spirit a kind 
of Father Christmas summoning all to drink. — This queer jumble is worth 
more space than I can afford it. Just a word or two in passing. St. Gay is 
given up by Halliwell-PhilHpps as an ** addition to the calendar not noticed 

1 Repr. in Manly's Specimens; the former from Notes and ^eries. Fifth Series, II. 
503-505 5 the latter from Kelly's Notices of Leicester. 

2 Halliwell's Contributions to E. Engl. Lit. 

3 British Museum, Add. Mss. 33,418. 

* Repr, Manly, Specimens from Folk Lore yournal, VII. 338-353. 



xliv An Historical View 

elsewhere." But one observes that his squire is a foreigner, as his name 
and garb both proclaim/ and that he is the squire of a champion. This 
limits us to the three foreign champions of Christendom, and from St. Gay's 
second speech we discover, not only that he is San Diego of Spain, but (un- 
less I am gravely mistaken) that some author of the various generations of 
authors of this play had acquaintance with Caxton's Golden Legend of 1483, 
where, in the Life of St. James the More, we find the original, in oddly 
similar terms, of one altogether unintelligible phrase used by this English make- 
shift for a Spanish champion.^ Further not very definite but suggestive simi- 
larities with the Lfe of St. George add to the presumption that the Caxton 
translation of the Legenda Aurea underlies portions of this folk play. Of 
course a play of the martyrdom of St. George may have existed earlier still, but 
if, as would seem to be the case, Voragine invented the dragon, that monster 
cannot have played a part before 1270-90 ; it does not play a part even in 
the South English Legendary of i 285, but is prominent in Caxton's narrative. 
With the play just described the Lutterworth is identical in some seven or 
eight passages, and save that there is no Black Prince, and that a Turkish 
Champion takes the place of St. Gay, the principal characters are the same. 
The introduction of Beelzebub and a clown, with remarks appropriate to each, 
would, however, indicate that this part of the play is earlier than the amalga- 
mated Beelzebub-clown of the Derbyshire. Both plays preserve reminiscences 
of the crusades. As to the Oxfordshire, I can say only that it is a rigmarole 
from history, legend, and nursery tale, culminating in the destruction of 
the dragon (or Old Nick) and the appearance of Father Christmas. The 
Bassingham plays present the stock characters, but little of the original story. 
They add elements of scandal and love, however, — the former in connec- 
tion with Dame Jane, who tries to fasten the paternity of her child on a 
** Father's Eldest Son, And heir of all his land " ; and the latter in connection 
with a Fair Lady, who is wooed by Eldest Son, Farming Man, Lawyer, Old 
Man, and refuses them all, in the end apparently to accept the Fool. This 
part of the story is a link between the St. George plays and the sword-dance 
plays, as is also the Shetland, where St. George himself sustains the part of 
principal dancer. In the Revesby sw^ord-dance play, acted in 1779 by mor- 
ris-dancers, the Fair Lady of the Bassingham reappears as Cicely to refuse 

1 Stow speaks of mummers, "with black visors, not amiable, as if legates from some 
foreign prince." 

^ Cf. "Two balls (i. e. bulls) from yonder mountain have laid me quite loiv,^'' with 
Golden Legend^ vol. IV., p. 103, Temple Classics ed. There is no such close similarity in the 
language of the Early South English Legendary, Laud Ms., Seint leme, and Seint George 
(Horstmann, Ed. E.E.T.S., 1887). _ 



of English Comedy xlv 

Pepper-breeches, "My father's eldest son. And heir of all his land," 
Ginger-breeches, Blue-breeches, the Knight of Lee, and Pickle Herring, the 
Lord of Pool, in favour of Rafe the Fool. Though the phraseology of the 
Bassingham and Revesby is occasionally the same, the latter is utterly removed 
from the St. George original save in the mention of dragon and w^orm which 
accompany the morris-dancers. How far back the Revesby sword-dance play 
may date I do not know. The dance was common on the continent in the 
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and a similar performance with a fool in the 
middle is recorded as taking place in Ulm in i 5 5 i . The name of the merry- 
andrew. Pickle Herring, may possibly take us back to the first quarter of the 
sixteenth century. For, as is well known, it is the usual designation for the 
clown in the 1620 collection of plays acted by the so-called English come- 
dians in Germany. According to Creizenach,^ the character w^as introduced by 
Robert Reynolds, who w^as perhaps himself the Robert Pickelharing mentioned 
in connection with an entertainment given at Torgau in 1627. Floegel and 
Ebeling speak of **der alte Pickelhering aus der Moralititaten des fiinfzehnten 
Jahrhunderts," as if he were the **old Vice"; but surely without justifica- 
tion. I know of no mention of Pickle Herring before 1620, and since he 
still held the stage in Lo wen's Prinz Pickelheri?ig, about the middle of the 
eighteenth century, it is not impossible that the character was borrowed by 
the English sword play at a comparatively recent date. The continuance of 
the Devil and his relation to the clown in these plays are a subject of his- 
torical interest, but it would be a mistake to say, as Halliwell-Phillipps has 
said of the Beelzebub, that either of them is **a genuine descendant of the 
Vice." 

Perhaps I should not have stayed to make these remarks, but they will, I 
hope, direct attention to a phenomenon unique in the history of English drama. 
The St. George play is an example of how a legendary miracle, sacred in its 
origin, may pass into a folk drama of a national hero, and that again degen- 
erate into a mumming or dance ; and how this, oblivious of the original plot 
and finally of all fable, may first transform the saintly hero into a performer in 
a sword dance, as in the Shetland play, and then, ag in the Revesby, elimi- 
nate even him and substitute a fool. Both literary career and literary indig- 
nity of this kind have been escaped by the other national saint of England, 
Edward the Confessor. In earher days he figured in frequent pageants, rec- 
ords of which are preserved, for instance, in the Old Leet Book of Coventry, 
of the years 1456 and 1471, but he readily gave way to St. George and dis- 
appeared from the dramatic horizon. 

1 Scbauspiele d. engl. Komodianten^ Einl. XCIV. 



xlvi An Historical View 



5. The Devil and the Vice 

The nexus between the comic qualities of the miracle plays and those of 
the morals cannot well be made without some discussion of the roles of the 
Devil and the Vice. The treatise which I have before cited/ and which 
appears to me fairly conclusive, shows that the Devil of the English stage is 
originally a creation, not of folk mythology, but of theology. He is concrete, 
to be sure, in accordance with scriptural and legendary tradition, but in the 
' mysteries ' his character is almost entirely serious, not ludicrous, as appears 
to be vulgarly reported. The association of the genuinely comic or satirical 
with the conception of the Devil is first evident in later representations of that 
character, and then only in the case of lesser denizens of the lower world. 
The humorous scene in the Chester Harrowitig between the demons and the 
alewife abandoned in hell is, for instance, as Dr. Deimling has said, a late inter- 
polation. The Wakefield dramatist's contribution to the Judicium y of Tuti- 
villus and his ilk, is about the only diabolic humour in the miracles ; and 
that the satirical speech of the Coventry demon in the Conspiracy was a still 
later borrowing from TutivilluSy I have but little doubt. To credit the 
Devils of the earliest miracles with a tendency and an ability to criticise man- 
ners and morals would be just as wrong as to attribute to them a buffoonery 
which accrues only at a later date. Of the Mephistophelian style, more 
serious than Chaucer's and more satirical than Langland's, we have no his- 
torical trace before the witty Devil of Wakefield — or his maker. The 
humour of the miracle Devils shows itself in bombastic, grotesque, or abusive 
language, rather than in anything of comic utterance or incident. The 
uproarious laughter caused, according to tradition, by this character cannot, 
therefore, have depended upon the lines of the dramatist, except in so far as 
those consist of threats, objurgation, profanity, and the like. There is little in 
the asides of the printed page, or in the rare addresses of the Devil to his 
audience, or the deportation of souls to hell ^ to account for amusement. 
Rewfyn,^ Rybald, and Tutivillus are the only humorous devil-names in the 
five cycles of which we have been speaking ; and of the shouting and fire- 
works in which we are told the infernal spirits were wont to indulge, we find 
scarcely any mention except in the plays concerning the fall of the angels and 
the harrowing of hell. That the merriment of the crowd was provoked by 

1 L. W. Cushman, The Devil and the Vice^ Halle a. S., 1900. 

2 I remember only Herod and Antichrist outside of the Digby plays and of the Cornwall 
cycle (where the devils act as chorus and carry off everything in sight), and the souls of those 
already damned who are claimed by the devils of the Towneley. 

3 Whether the Rewfyn and Leyon of the Co. were Devils, I have my doubts. 



of English Comedy xlvii 

the appearance and antics of the Devil — that is to say, by the improvisation 
of the actor — and his raids upon the spectators is natural to infer. The 
dramatists themselves did not provide for close association betv^een the spirits 
of hell and living men. The Devil addresses the audience but seldom, and 
then, perhaps, to threaten with his club. In fact, the Devil of the old 
miracles, as we usually conceive him, is an anachronism created by certain 
historians of the drama ; the buffoon roaring, pyrotechnic, and familiar, 
springs into prominence only with the Digby plays, and is but slowly de- 
veloped in the moral plays and interludes. Though the aspiring angels of 
the York and Chester plays **go down" in actual fact, and the Lucifer of 
the former cycle complains of heat and smoke, there is no mention of hell- 
mouth in the account-books before 1557, nor in the stage directions of 
the Digby ^ before we reach the Digby Paul and Magdalene Mss. of about 
1480-90; and even then the entries appear to be the insertions of some later 
hand. In these plays the flames of hell-mouth, the fireworks, and thunder 
are distinctive accessories of the Devil's presence. Still, it is not in a miracle 
play after all, but in a moral — the Castell of Perseverance (about 1400) — 
that the first stage direction of this nature is found. In the transitional 
miracle morals, Pauly Wisdom, Magdalene, the Devil by his own account 
as well as by stage direction **rores and cries." He was abusive in the 
Castell of Perseverance ; but in the later morals or moral interludes he 
**rores and cries" for mere fun — in the Lust;^ Juventus, for instance, the 
Disobedient Child, and All for Money. 

Concerning the Devil even of this later birth, many false conceptions, due 
to insufficient research, have obtained currency. It is commonly imagined 
that he was the mainspring of the play, that he came into close contact with 
human beings, that he represented phases of human character, that he was a 
comical figure, — jester, or ** roister," or butt, — and that he held some fixed 
relation to the Vice, who was **his constant attendant," says Malone. 
But the Devil was the principal personage only in the earliest of the morals 
that survive, he rarely associated with mankind, and he assumed the human 
role, such as that of judge or sailor, only once or twice. ^ In the moral plays 
not more than four or five comic Devils are extant — the Titivillus of Man- 
kynd, the Beelzebub of the Nigromansir, the Lucifer of Like wil to Like, 
and the Devil of All for Money ; and the last of these is the only roysterer of 
the lot, one of the very few to serve as butt for the Vice. Such jokes as that 
of the Devil taking ** a shrewd boy with him " from the audience in Wisdom 

1 Furnivall, Digby Flays, p. 43 ; ten Brink, Gesch. engl. Lit., II. 320, and Sharp's 
Dissertation on the Co. Mysteries, 1825. 

2 In the Nigromansir, and the Shipwrights'' Play of Newcastle. 



xlviii An Historical View 

are interpolations, and it is only after the moral has passed its zenith that, 
as in Like wil to Like and the early comedy Friar Bacon, the Devil carries 
off the Vice-clown. As early as 1486-1500 the moral play. Nature, — 
called, when printed in 1538, a goodly interlude, — dispenses with the Devil 
altogether., and from that time on the character appears only in some half- 
dozen extant plays of the kind and its derivatives, and is subordinate. Towards 
the end of the sixteenth century, however, the Devil is revived, and in come- 
dies of concrete life and character he frequently swaggers as a blusterer or 
comic personage : in Grim the Collier, for instance, in the Knack to know a 
Knave, and Histrio-Mastix, as well as seventeenth-century plays like The 
Devil is in It and The Devil is an Ass, I have said that his office in 
the genuine moral was not comic, neither was it satirical. It consisted largely 
in directing or commissioning his agents, the Vices. Professor Cushman, who 
makes this statement, further points out that this conception of the Devil did 
not develop in any popular sense, nor gain in variety in the English moral 
plays ; but that the case is altogether dissimilar in the German and French 
drama of the same period, where the devils are not only numerous, but 
carefully differenced as ■ representatives of the various foibles of mankind, — 
a role which was assumed in England, as we shall presently see, by the 
Vice. 

Between the detached, and sometimes serious. Devil of the cycles and the 
Vice of the moral plays, ever present, dominant and comical, concrete in mani- 
fold person and guise, a middle or transitional position is occupied by the fiend 
of the later miracle and the demon of the earher moral. Examples of the 
former are Tutivillus and his humorous associates in the Wakefield Judicium, 
Lord Lucifer of the Coventry Council (who, like the Vice, euphemizes his 
attendant Deadly Sins), the Prynse of Dylles of the Magdalene, and the sailor 
devil of the Newcastle play ; examples of the latter are the gunpowder Belial 
o^ Perseverance, the intriguing Lucifer of Wisdom, now in ** devely aray," 
anon as a ** prowde galaunt," the farcical and efficient Titivillus of Mankind, 
and Beelzebub, the judge and buffoon of the Nigromansir. But though the 
demon of the morals bears some relation to his predecessor of the miracles, he 
is not borrowed from the miracles. He grows out of a common tradition. 

Just as the Devil persists in spite of lapse and change through miracle play, 
moral, and interlude into Elizabethan comedy, so the Vice, though he did not 
obtain .so early a footing upon the stage. There are previsions of him in the 
later miracles and earher morals ; he flourished in the morals of the middle 
period and the moral interludes, and there are traces of him in the regular 
comedy. He disappeared only in deference to the differentiated humours, 
follies, or vices of social life, of which no controlling Folly or Vice may be 



of English Comedy xlix 

regarded as the sole incarnation, — for in the culture of them each of us 
indulges a genius of his own. 

The term Vice is not used as the designation of a stock dramatic character 
till the appearance of Hey wood's Play of the Wether and Play of Love y 
before or about 1532. It is next employed in Respublica, 1553, and Jacke 
Jugeler, 1553—61. These and similar notices of that period, however, 
occur only on title-pages of plays or in hsts or stage directions. The earliest 
mention of the Vice in the text of a play is found in King Darius, 1565. 
It is not until 1567, with the HoresteSy that we find the designation <* used 
consistently throughout, in the title, the hst of players and the rubric." ^ 
But whether the generic name of Vice was introduced by the authors of these 
plays, or, as is more likely, by the actors, it was a well-known designation 
of a stock figure, especially in the moral drama from 1530 onward ; and from 
that time was used by publishers to advance the interest of certain plays. 
Since, however, the idea of the Vice seems to be inseparable from that of the 
moral play, the character had achieved a prominence long before it was 
listed as a generic designation. Collier defines the moral, or moral inter- 
lude, as **A drama the characters of which are allegorical, abstract, or 
symbolical, and the style of which is intended to convey a lesson for the 
better conduct of human life." And the differencing quahty of the moral is, 
as Mr. Pollard has said, **the contest between the personified powers of good 
and evil for the possession of a human soul. As the allegorical representatives 
of the good were the Seven Cardinal Virtues, so the representatives of the 
evil were the Seven Deadly Sins and their master the Devil." From these 
Seven Deadly Sins or Vices, the Vice par excellence of the morals and inter- 
ludes is without doubt descended. With the opinion of Ward and Douce, 
however, that he is proved to be of native English origin> I car^not unreserv- 
edly concur ; nor with a statement in the thesis to which I have already 
referred, that the Germans and French had no Vice, but used instead the 
** differentiated " devil. Idleness, a Vice, though not so called, appears in 
the French Bien-Avise et Mal-Avise (r. 1439), about as early as any Vice 
appears in English drama ; and the four confederates of the Devil in U Homme 
Pecheur, Desperation, etc., perform the office, though they have not the 
designation, of Vice. The Hypocrisie and Simonie of Gringoire's attack 
upon U Homme Obstine (Julius II.), about 151 2, are as true representatives 
of the Vice as are the corresponding figures in 2^he Nigromansir, Thrie 
EstatiSy Kyng Johan, Respublica and Conflict of Conscience. 

To understand the relations between the Vice and the moral play one 
should turn, if there were opportunity, to the manifold representations of the 

1 Cushman, p. 66. 



1 An Historical View 

World, the Flesh, the Devil, the Seven Deadly Sins and similar allegorical 
figures in mediaeval literature of other kinds than the dramatic. It must 
suffice here, however, to consider the relation of these characters to each other 
in the later miracles and the earlier moral plays. In the pageants of the Play 
of Paternoster the Seven Deadly Sins are represented. About the same 
time, in the Wakefield cycle, they are already written on the rolls of the 
Doomsday Demon, and discussed ** in especiall " by Tutivillus. In the 
Coventry Council of the Jews they are new-named by their Lord Lucifer 
(after the manner of the later Vice), Pride as Honesty, Wrath as Man- 
hood, Covetousness as Wisdom, and so on. It is through the Seven Deadly 
Sins that the Belial of St. Paul (Digby) ** raynes " ; and the Saint himself^ 
preaches against them in general and in several, calling them not only mortal 
sins, but, as if the terms were synonymous. Vices and Folly. In the 
Mary Magdalene they are not only personified, but, further, classified as 
attendants upon their respective kings — Pride and Covetyse, ministers of the 
World ; Lechery, Gluttony, and Sloth, of the Flesh ; Wrath and Envy, of 
the Devil, — and as such they are sent into action. This distinction by classes 
is interesting because it shows that from a very early date the Vice was regarded 
as the servant, not of the Devil alone, but of the World and the Flesh as well. 
And it will be noticed later that, while the minor Vices of the moral interludes 
frequently bear the names of specific sins, the leading Vice is still likely to be 
called by a name which sums up all the specific sins of just one of these three 
satrapies of the Flesh, the World, the Devil, — Sensuality for the first. 
Hypocrisy or Avarice for the second, and Sedition or Riot for the third, — 
when he is not indicated by some synonym of Evil in general, such as Folly, 
Sin, Iniquity, Inclination, or Infidelity. Gradually the minor Vices pass into 
dramatic insigtiificance as compared with their principal representative, who 
becomes the Vice in chief. The morals before i 500 or thereabouts had one 
or more of the following figures : Devil, the World, the Flesh ; and their 
representatives, the Vice and minor Vices or Deadly Sins. Of these plays — 
Perseverance^ Mankynd, Mary Magdalene, Wisdom, Nature, and Everyman, 
— all but the last three display the complete aggregation : Wisdom stars with 
only a Devil, Nature lacks a Devil, and Everyman lacks both Devil and prin- 
cipal Vice. The morals of the middle period, 1 500 to 1 560, generally 
eliminate the Devil and concentrate the sins, temptations, and mischiefs in 
the Vice, sometimes with, sometimes without, his foils, the minor Vices. In 
the Castell of Perseverance, about 1400, the Deadly Sins are ** children of the 
Devil" ; in The World and Child, about 1506, they are expressly summed 
up in one Vice, — Folly ; in Lusty Juventus, Like wil to Like, and several 

1 Furnivall's ed., Pt. II. 510, 517, 531, 536, 541. 



of English Comedy 



other moral interludes after 1550, the Vice parades as son or grandson 
to the Devil; and finally, about 1578, while each of the minor Vices 
represents **one sin particularly," the Vice himself embodies **all sins 
generally." 

It must be sufficiently evident by this time that the derivation of this 
name, in spite of a half-dozen misleading conjectures, is no other than that 
which is obvious. I notice, however, that Mr. Pollard regards the ety- 
mology from vitium as still doubtful, ** because in one of the earliest instances 
in which the Vice is specifically mentioned by name, he plays the part of Mery 
Report, who is a jester pure and simple, without any connection with any 
of the Deadly Sins." But the Vice or Folly had been known for two or 
three centuries in allegorical and satirical literature, and for a century and 
a half in the religious drama before 1530, and the designation had acquired 
a supplementary and degraded connotation when used in the Wether, Jacke 
Jugekfy etc., as a player's term or means of advertisement. About his func- 
tion and habits, also, various misconceptions have gathered. I have, for in- 
stance, referred to Malone's statement that he was a constant attendant upon 
the Devil. Nothing could be more misleading. The Devil appears in at 
least two morals unattended by a Vice of any kind,^ and the Vice appears 
in twenty-five or thirty without a Devil. They appear together in but eight ^ 
that I know of; and in only four^ can the Vice be said to ** attend." That 
he eggs the demons on to twit or torment the Devil, I cannot discover 
in more than two plays, — Like wil to Like, and All for Money. Since 
the days of Harsnet and Ben Jonson it has been reported that the Vice of 
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries made a practice of riding to hell on the 
Devil's back. But I have already pointed out that he does this in only 
one play before 1580. The same Like wil to Like is the only play in 
which he specifically ** belabours the fiend." I know of no other in which 
that merriment was even likely to occur. In fact most of these attributions 
belong, not to the Vice of the morals and interludes, but to one of the later 
substitutes for him, the Vice-clown, such as Miles in Friar Bacon, or Iniquity 
in The Devil is an Ass, 

A general view of his history shows, then, that the Vice is neither an 
ethical nor dramatic derivative of the Devil ; nor is he a pendant to that 
personage, as foil or ironical decoy, or even antagonist. The Devil of the 
early drama is a mythical character, a fallen archangel, the anthropomorphic 

1 Wisdom^ Disobedient Child. 

2 Perseverance, Mankynd, Mary Magdalene, Nigromansir, Jwventus, Like, Conflict of 
Conscience, Money. 

' Mankynd, Mary Magdalene, Jwventus, and Like. 



Hi An Historical View 

Adversary. The Vice, on the other hand, is allegorical, — typical of the 
moral frailty of mankind. Proceeding from the concept of the Deadly Sins, 
ultimately focussing them, he dramatizes the evil that springs from within. 
Though at first directed by God's Adversary, who assails man with tempta- 
tions from without, the Vice is the younger contemporary of the Devil rather 
than his agent. As he acquires personahty, he assumes characteristics and 
functions unknown to the Adversary, scriptural or dramatic. The functions 
were gradually assimilated with those of mischief-maker, jester, and counter- 
feit-crank ; the characteristics, more and more affected by the Fool-literature 
of Wireker, Lydgate, Brandt and Barclay, Skelton, and the rest (which 
included vice in Folly, and by the Fool connoted vicious characters in all 
variety), were insensibly identified with social rather than abstract ethical 
quahties, and so came to be distributed as tendencies or *' humours" among 
the persons of the drama, — who themselves are no longer allegorical, but 
representative of the concrete individuals of everyday life. Though the 
conduct of the interlude Vice may be anything but dignified, his function 
was, accordingly, at first serious. It was only gradually, and as the con- 
flict between good and evil was supplanted by less didactic materials, — in 
other words, as the moral became more of a play, — that the Vice grew to be 
farcical, a mischief-maker, and ultimately jester. So long as he acts the 
seducer in disguise, and the marplot, he remains dramatically supreme. 
When he, however, assumes the role of parasite, counterfeit-crank, or 
simple, he enhances the variety of his fascination at the expense of his 
distinctive quality ; and when he once has identified himself with the Will 
Summer, the actor, wag, or buffoon by profession, he plays below the func- 
tion and level of his pristine quality. The Vice proper should, therefore, 
not be confounded with the Shakespearean fool, nor with the country clown. 
The country clown or booby he in reality never is ; indeed, in some earlier mani- 
festations ^ the clown exists contemporaneously with the Vice, and is his natu- 
ral though not always complaisant quarry. Though the Vice, however, did 
not turn clown, the clown imperceptibly usurped quahties of the vanishing 
Vice. 

In connection with the misconception concerning the derivation of the 
Vice from the domestic fool, of course incompatible with his descent from 
the Deadly Sins, there lingers a report that he was ordinarily dressed in a fool's 
habit. Such is the opinion of Klein - and Douce ; and Morley ^ writes, ** The 
Vice, when not in disguise, wore — as Brandt or Barclay would have thought 
most fitting — the dress of a fool.'* The dress of some typical fool of every- 

1 The Witt and TVisdome, King Cambyses, Like, and Horestes. 

2 Gesch. d. engl. Dramas, II., p, 4. 3 English Writers, VII., p. 182. 



I 



of English Comedy liii 

» 

day life, some social *' crank," — yes ; but not until the latter third of the six- 
teenth century, when the Vice was in his dotage, did he lose himself in the 
habit of the domestic fool. The Vice ** shaking his wooden dagger," of 
whom Ben Jonson gives us a glimpse in The Devil is an Ass and The Staple 
of NewSy is without doubt the domestic fool in the characteristic long coat, or 
in the juggler's jerkin with false skirts. But we must remember that Ben 
Jonson was writing some sixty or seventy years after the Vice properly so 
called was in his prime. From 1450 to 1570 and later, the distinctive Vice 
of the moralities was accoutred in the costume oi his role, first of a Deadly 
Sin or little ** dylfe " ; then of some social class, trade, or type : messenger, 
herald, beggar, rat-catcher, priest, pharisee, gallant, dandy, or *cit.' Occa- 
sionally he assumed a succession of costumes according to this dramatic neces- 
sity. He was indeed frequently equipped, in addition, with horn spectacles 
and wooden dagger, and sometimes with a burlesque of ceremonious attire,^ 
or he was furnished with squibs and other fireworks,^ or with hangman's rope 
or bridle. Professor Cushman surmises that he was; even, sometimes made 
up like Punch, for instance, in Horestes and Cambyses. I don't know about 
that, but of this we may be sure, that as a Vice he was not distinguished 
by the traditional costume of the domestic fool. That character, soon 
to play an important part in comedy, appropriated certain tricks and aspects 
of the Vice, but the distinctive figure of the moral drama did not proceed 
from or ape the domestic fool of contemporary life. 

* Oddly enough it has lately been asserted that this character had no part 
in the * morality ' proper. An implication to the same effect is to be found in 
Halliwell-Phillipps's notes to Witt and Wisdome as early as 1846, where he 
says that *' the Vice is the buffoon of the old moral plays which succeeded the 
Reformation." The fact is that the Vice takes part in all the plays under 
consideration, whether called morals proper or moral interludes, from 1400 
to 1578, except only Wisdom of the pre- Reformation series and the Dis- 
obedient Child o^ i\iQ post- Reformation. Two other of the thirty-odd morals 
and moral interludes, namely, the Pride of Life and Everyman, resort to a 
substitute. They distribute the role among minor representatives of the World, 
Flesh, and Devil, but they do not dispense with the idea of the Vice.^ From 
him proceeds most of the human interest of these earlier comedies. Like the 
inclinations that he personifies, he is first sinful, then venial, then amusing ; 

1 Camhyses] cf. Roister Doister's array. 

2 P/ay of Lo-ve 5 cf. the braggart Crackstone in Tivo Ital. Gent. , much later. 

3 In Wisdom he may be regarded as Vice and Devil (Lucifer) rolled into one ; in E'veryman 
he is probably represented by the friends who desert the hero in time of need j in the Disobedient 
Child he is concrete as the prodigal son. 



liv An Historical View 

t 

and to his tradition the comedy of a later age owes more than we are wont to 
suspect. It owes to him the development of certain spiritual characteristics, a 
cynical but rollicking superiority to sham, a freedom from the thrall of social 
and rehgious externality, a reckless joy of living, but an aloofness, withal, and 
a humour requisite to the exercise of satire. It is, indeed, as satirist some- 
times virulent, but usually jocose, that the Vice is most to be esteemed. 
In so far as the genial character of the domestic fool of Green, Lodge, or 
Shakespeare reflected his irony and shrewd wit, some memory of him sur- 
vived ; and the clown- Vice of Friar Bacon renews a passage or two of his 
later career, but not every usurper of his comic appanage, his mimicry, puns, 
irrelevance, and horse-play can lay claim to be descended from the Vice. 

The dramatic importance of this figure can therefore not be overrated. 
He forms the callida jufictura between religious and secular, didactic and 
artistic, ideal and tangible, in our early comedy. He found a house of cor- 
rection and he left a stage. Garcios, Pilates, Doomsday demons, and Maks 
precede, or flit beside him ; but he, with his ancestral Sins, dependent FoUies, 
and succeeding Ironies and Humours, occupies the central and the foremost 
place. Even while representing the superfluity of naughtiness with an eye 
to its reprobation, he is the life of the 'moral,' — its apology for artistic 
existence, its appeal to human interest. But when he steals a further 
march and rounds up for ridicule the very components of the allegorical 
drama that are most removed from laughter, and most liable thereto, — the 
long-faced abstractions that regard the comic spirit as sinful and are imper- 
vious to a joke, — he fulfils his destiny. He is the dramatic salt and sol- 
vent of the moral play. At first it couldn't thrive without him ; at last it 
couldn't thrive with him. For, what raison (T etre could a moral have that 
no longer regarded the comic as immoral, knew a joke at sight, perhaps 
adventured one on its own account? Step by step with the development 
of a popular aesthetic interest in the affairs of common men the playwright 
asserted his superiority to social and allegorical make-believes, and the Vice 
proved his utility as a dramatic reagent. Once the Vice had gathered all sins 
in himself, his career was from * inclination ' to * humour,' from abstract to 
concrete, from the moral to the typical, the one to the many, and so from 
the service of allegory to that of interlude, moral and pithy, but merry, all in 
preparation for farce, and social and romantic comedy, 

6. The Relation between Miracle, Moral, and Interlude 

An unfortunate misapprehension has obtained currency to the effect that 
there was a deliberate transition, chronological and logical, from the miracle 



of English Comedy Iv 

cycle to the *' morality," and thence to a something entirely diiFerent, called 
the interlude ; and it is supposed that definite advances in the development of 
comedy were made pari passu with this transition. It is even said, by one 
of the most genial and learned of English scholars, who of course was not 
intending anything by way of scientific accuracy, at the time, that **in the 
progress of the drama. Moralities followed Mysteries, and were succeeded by 
Interludes. When folk tired of Religion on the Stage they took to the incul- 
cation of morality and prudence ; and when this bored them they set up 
Fun." ^ But the moral play ^ was rather a younger contemporary and com- 
plement of the miracle than a follower, or a substitute for it. Moreover, 
allegory in the acted drama commanded the attention of the public contempo- 
raneously with the scriptural plays of the later fourteenth century; in litera- 
ture it had occupied attention long before. People, therefore, did not wait 
until they were tired of religion upon the stage, before taking to the inculcation 
of morality ; nor could they have hoped to escape religion by any such sub- 
stitute. Moral plays, hke plays which were originally liturgical, aimed at 
religious instruction. But as the scriptural-liturgical illustrated the forms of 
the church service and its narrative content, the moral illustrated the sermon 
and the creed. The former dealt with history and ritual, the latter with 
doctrine ; the former made the rehgious truth concrete in scriptural figures 
and events, the latter brought it home to the individual by allegorical 
means. The historical course of the drama was not from the scriptural play 
to the allegorical, but from the collective miracle and collective moral, prac- 
tically contemporary, to the individual miracle and individual moral. The dra- 
matic quaHty of the moral was, as we shall presently remark, not the same as 
that of the miracle, but it neither supplanted nor fully supplemented that of the 
miracle. 

The distinction between * morality ' and * interlude ' has likewise been 
unduly and illogically emphasized. The former term may properly be said to 
indicate the content and aim of a drama ; the latter, its garb and occasion ; 
but the essential characters of the moral play, the human hero and the represen- 
tatives of good and evil contending for his soul, may be common to interlude 
and * morality ' alike, and both terms may with justice refer to the same 
drama. After 1 500 the role of hero is, to be sure, sometimes filled by 
an historical character, or by one or more concrete personages representative 
of a type ; but it must not be supposed that the play possessing such a hero is 
therefore to be called an interlude, for similar heroes are to be found in the 
morals before 1500. Nor should the statement be accepted that morals are 

^ Furnivall, Digby P/ays, Forewords, xiii. 

2 Never * Morality ' to our ancestors 5 thar is a fiitile borrowing from the French, 



Ivi An Historical View 

distinguished from interludes by the presence in the former of both Devil and 
Vice ; for several interludes of a later date have both Devil and Vice, while 
some of the earlier morals, written before 1500, have but one or the other of 
these characters, or neither.^ The attempt to characterize the moral by its 
professed didactic intent, and the interlude by the lack thereof or the profes- 
sion of mirth, is equally unavailing ; for that manifest moral, the Pride of Life ^ 
one of the earliest extant, makes expHcit promise in its prologue **of mirth 
and eke of kare " from ** this our game " ; while Matiky?id, a moral of 1461 
to 1485, which advertises no amusement, is as full of it as any late interlude. 
On the other hand, several plays written after 1568, calling themselves 
** comedies or enterludes," and promising brevity and mirth, are tedious. 
But, for the advertisement, sub-title, or specification of the play we must of 
course hold the publisher, and not the author, generally responsible. The 
common belief that * moralities ' were succeeded by * interludes ' is prob- 
ably due in large part to the fact that * interlude ' has been used in England 
at different periods for entirely different kinds of entertainment, some of which, 
notably that to which Collier in 1 83 i restricted the term, — the play after the 
style of Hey wood, — were of later production than the moral. But other 
kinds of * interlude ' date back to 1300, and precede the first mention of the 
moral play ; while later kinds include the moral, and finally are synonymous 
with any humorous and popular performance. Collier's restriction of the 
term was, therefore, unfortunate. It interpreted a genus as a species ; for, 
although the interlude was originally any short entertainment, occupying the 
pauses between graver negotiations of the palate or intellect, it had, in the 
course of its history, acquired a significance almost as broad as * drama * 
itself. The interlude was of various form and content and covered many 
species. As farce, the interlude anticipated moral plays ; as allegorical drama, 
it absorbed them ; and as comedy, it is their younger contemporary. It is 
not merely the play after the style of John Heywood. It is long or short ; 
religious, moral, pedagogic, political, or doctrinal ; scriptural, allegorical, or 
profane ; classical or native ; imaginative or reproductive of the commonplace ; 
stupid or humorous ; satirical or purely comic. It seems to me, therefore, 
unwise to perpetuate a distinction between moral plays and interludes which 
was not recognized by those who wrote and heard the plays in question. 

The reduction of the number of actors, the abbreviation of the play, the 
concentration of the plot, wherever these exist in the later morals or moral 
interludes, are not evidence of a change of kind, but merely of a natural evo- 
lution through a period of some two hundred years. When ten Brink says 

1 fVisdom has only Lucifer ; Nature has only Sensuality and minor Vices ; Pride of Life 
had Devils in all probability, but no Vice, for Mirth is not one 5 E-veryman has neither. 



of English Comedy Ivii 

that the interlude was the species best adapted to further the development of 
dramatic art, we must understand by interlude the individual, as opposed to 
the collective drama, — or the occasional performance by professionals for the 
delectation, and sometimes at the order, of private persons or parties, as opposed 
to expository or perfunctory plays, plays manipulated by crafts, or associated 
with times, places, and ends external to art. The improvement in scope and 
elasticity which marks the individual play is due to various causes : to patron- 
age, which prefers amusement to instruction, and the work of artists to that 
of journeymen ; to the development accordingly of a bread-and-butter profes-- 
sion of acting, with its accompanying stimuli of necessity and opportunity. 
Poetic invention, dramatic constructiveness and style, are sometimes spurred 
by hunger ; they are always responsive to the appreciation of the cultivated, 
and maybe to the reward. 



7. The Older Morals in their Relation to Comedy 

The remaining dramas within the compass of this survey may be considered 
in the following order : first, the older morals and moral interludes, between 
the years 1400 and 1520 ; second, various experiments of native and foreign, 
classical and romantic, origin which distinguish a period of transition extend- 
ing approximately from 1520 to 1553 ; and, third, some nine or ten plays 
of prime importance which succeed these and unite, in one way or another, 
qualities of structure and aim hitherto distinctive of separate dramatic kinds. 
The period during w^hich these plays, which I shall venture to call polytypic, 
were produced, roughly coincides vs^ith the years 1545 to 1566, and among 
these plays are the first English comedies really worthy of the name. We 
must then notice a group of rudimentary survivals, some of which, falling 
between 1550 and 1570, illustrate simply an artificial adaptation of the 
* moral' species, while other '[fw, appearing between 1553 and 1580, are a 
persistent flowering of the decadent stock, fruitless in kind but genuine in comic 
quality. We shall finally pass in brief review the crude romantic plays of mor- 
als or intrigue or popular tradition written between 1570 and 1590. And if 
it were not for lack of space, we should also glance at the satirical comedies 
which appeared when Shakespeare was beginning and Greene was ceasing ; 
but, so far as possible, I must omit all subjects to which any consideration has 
elsewhere been accorded in this volume. 

A sympathetic examination of the older morals — those that were pro- 
duced before i 520 — will reveal, even though the period is comparatively early, 
a twofold character of composition. We find, on the one hand, plays inter- 



Iviii An Historical View 

pretative of ideals of life, constructive in character, relying upon the funda- 
mentally allegorical, and making principally for a didactic end. We find, on 
the other hand, plays that deal with the actual have a critical aim, reproduce 
appearances and manners, and tend tow^ard the amusing and satirical. 

Of the half-dozen morals that made for the development of constructive 
or interpretative comedy, one of the earliest (about 1400) and most impor- 
tant was the Castell of Perseverance. In the quality of its dramatic devices 
it sustains a close relation to the Digby Magdalene, — the siege of the Castell 
by the Seven Deadly Sins, and their repulse under the roses which the Virtues 
have discharged. It also makes use of characters already prominent in the 
eleventh Coventry play, the Pax and Misericordia, who there, as here, intercede 
for mankind. Collier calls this a well -constructed and much varied allegory, and 
says with good reason that its completeness indicates predecessors in the same 
kind. It is itself an early treatment of a fruitful theme, variously handled 
in later plays like Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, and in narratives like The Holy 
War. Though the abstractions are not of a highly dramatic character, still one 
or two of them, — for instance Detractio, the Vice, who is a cousin of the 
Coventry Backbiter, and of Invidiam *«who dwellyth in Abbeys ofte," fore- 
shadow the comedy of manners and satire, that is to say, the comedy of criti- 
cism. Other morals or moral interludes of the constructive kind, which I 
must forbear to describe, even though they contributed in one way or another 
to the improvement of dramatic consciousness or skill, are the Pride of Life, of 
antiquity perhaps as high as the preceding ; the Wisdom that is Christy 1480- 
1490, a comedy in the mediaeval sense, insomuch as it portrays the ultimate 
triumph of a hero in his contest with temptation ; Mundus et Infans, printed 
1522, but written perhaps by the beginning of the century, which, beside 
giving us a vivid satirical picture of low life, makes a twofold contribution 
to the technique of comedy, — an iteration of crises in plot, and a sequence of 
changes in the character of the hero ; Skel ton's Mag?iyfycence, 151 5-1 523, 
significant for ** vigour and vivacity of diction," and his Nigromansir, written 
somewhat earlier, which, though now lost, appears by Warton's account to 
have contributed, by its attack upon ecclesiastical abuses, to the beginnings of 
satirical comedy ; the Mora lie Play of the Somonynge of Everyman y printed 
before 1531, but of uncertain date of composition, — a tragedy to be sure, 
but *'one of the most perfect allegories ever formed." All these, even when 
not purposively comic or even entertaining, assist the dramatic presentation of 
an imaginative ideal ; occasionally also, though less directly, they contribute 
to dramatic satire and the portrayal of manners. 

Of moral plays written before i 520 that contributed to the comedy of real 
life and critical intent we still have three or four. Mankynd — somewhere 



of English Comedy lix 

between 1461 and 1485 — is of prime importance to the comedy of the 
actual, for practically its only claim to consideration as an allegorical or didac- 
tic production is that it maintains the plan and purpose of the moral play. 
Its dramatic tendency is altogether away from the abstract. In spite of its 
stereotyped Mercie and MyschefF, its minor Vices, and its Devil, it is a 
somewhat coarse but amusing portrayal of the manners of contemporary 
ne'er-do-weels. Attach no more meaning to the names Newgyse, Nowa- 
days, and Nowte than the chuckling audience did, or change them to Hunt- 
yngton o'i Sanston, Thuolay of Hanston, and Pycharde of Trumpyngton, 
and you perceive at once that the individuality, conversation, and behaviour 
of these characters, and even of the hero, when he is not *'holyer than ever 
was ony of his kyn," are hardly less natural and concrete than those of Eng- 
lishmen immortahzed by Heywood, Udall, and William Stevenson. The 
plot, to be sure, is dramatically futile, the incidents farcical, the merriment 
anything but refined ; but there are few merrier successors of the Wakefield 
Tutivillus than his namesake here, who, coming ** invysybull," cometh for all 
that ** with his legges under him" and **no lede on his helys " to inform 
the sanctimonious hero that *'a schorte prey ere thyrlyth hewyn " and the 
audience that ** the Devil is dead." Like the devil-judge of the Nigromatisir 
and the devil-sailor of the Shipwrights^ Pl^y, he has shaken off his biblical 
conventions (if he ever had any), he associates familiarly with characters of 
all kinds, and is marked by his grotesque devices as a wilful worker of confu- 
sion, the marplot of the play. The dog-Latin of the Vice MyschefF stands 
half-way between that of the Wakefield plays and that of Roister Doister and 
Thersytes ; and the Sam Wellerisms of Newgyse are a fine advance in the 
reproduction of the vulgar. His ** Beware ! quod the goode-wyfF, w^hen 
sche smot of here husbondes hede," and his ** Quod the Devill to the 
frerys," and other gayeties perilous to quote — there is something Rabelaisian 
in all this. So Nowte and Nowadays, with their racy idioms, their varie- 
gated oaths, and **allectuose ways," are to the manner born, neither new 
nor old ; they are of the picaresque drama that finds a welcome in every age 
and land. It is worth while to notice also the parallelism of crudity and 
progress in the technical devices of the action : on the one hand, the exchange 
of garments by which a change of motive is symbolized, a ruse that only 
gradually yields to the manifestation of character by means of action ; and on 
the other hand, the legitimate and dramatic parody of a scene in court. 

The concrete element so noteworthy in Mankynd is further developed in 
the ^^ Goodly Interlude of Nature y compylyde by" Archbishop Morton's 
chaplain, Henry Medwall, between i486 and 1500. This author must 
have possessed a remarkably vivid imagination, or have enjoyed a closer 



Ix An Historical View 

acquaintance than might be expected of one of his cloth with the seamy side 
of London ; for there are few racier or more realistic bits of description in 
our early literature than the account given by Sensuality of Fleyng Kat and 
Margery, of the perversion of the hero by the latter, and of her retirement 
when deserted to that house of*' Stray t Religyon at the Grene Freres hereby," 
where ** all is open as a gose eye." Though the plot is not remarkable, 
nor the mechanism of it, for almost the only device availed of is that of 
feigned names, still the author's insight into the conditions of low life, 
his common sense, his proverbial philosophy, his humorous exhibition of 
the morals of the day, and his stray and sudden shafts at the. foibles of 
his own religious class, would alone suffice to attract attention to this work. 
And even more remarkable than this in the history of comedy is Medwall's 
literary style : his versification excellent and varied, his conversations witty, 
idiomatic, and facile. Indeed, he is so far beyond the ordinary convention 
that he writes the first bit of prose to be found in our drama. 

Several of the characteristics of Mankynd are carried forward also in the 
mora] ** interlude," named, not for its hero Free Will, but for its Vice, 
Hyckescorner. It appears to have been written between 1497 and 15 12. 
The upper limit of production is fixed by the reference to Newfoundland, 
and perhaps by the fact that in the same year Locher's translation of the 
Narrenschiff appeared ; the lower limit by the mention of the ship Regent y 
which would not probably have been referred to as existing after 1512.^ 
Indeed, the mention of the ship "James may associate the lower Hmit with 
1503, the date of the Scotch marriage. The tendency of this moral is dis- 
tinctively didactic, — to denounce the folly that scoffs at religion, — but in 
quality it smacks more of comedy than any preceding play. Its value was 
long ago acknowledged by Dr. Percy. ** Abating the moral and religious 
reflections and the like," says he, **the piece is of a comic cast, and con- 
tains a humorous display of some of the vices of the age. Indeed, the author 
has generally shown so little attention to the allegorical that we need only to 
substitute other names to his personages, and we have, real characters and 
living manners." The plot is insignificant, but the situations are refreshingly 
humorous, and one of them, the setting of Pity in the stocks, is new. The 
local references are frequent, and the dialogue is more sprightly than even 
that of Nature. Hyckescorner is in many ways the model of another im- 
portant play of which we shall soon have reason to speak, the Interlude of 
Youth. 

1 I see no reason for assuming with Professor Brandl [^ellen u. Forschungen, XXVIII.) 
that the loss of the navy bound for Ireland, 11. 336-363, has reference to the destruction of 
the Regent by the French, 1 512. 



of English Comedy Ixi 

While the plot of the New Interlude and Mery of the Nature of the Four 
Elements, calls for no special notice, it interests us because in purpose it is not 
moral, but scientific, and in conduct makes use of comic and commonplace 
means not previously availed of. The humour proceeds not simply from the 
jumble of oaths, nicknames, proverbs, gibes, bad puns, transparent jokes, 
mimicry, Sam Wellerisms, and nugae canorae of which the talk of most Vices 
consists, but from the cleverly managed verbal misunderstanding between the 
Vice and the Taverner, the irrelevant question, and the humorous employ- 
ment of snatches and tags from popular songs. The introduction of a 
character representing a trade, such as that of the Taverner, who enumerates 
sixteen kinds of wine, and "by his face seems to love best drinking," is, of 
course, novel, but is not without precedent in the miracle plays. This 
interlude was printed in 15 19 by its author, John Rastell, evidently soon after 
it was written. 

When we consider that the Four Elements was written by a friend of Sir 
Thomas More, and that, like the plays of John Heywood, another of More's 
friends, it depends for much of its eiFect upon its gibes at womankind, we are, 
perhaps, assisted in realizing the extent to which the literary taste of the day 
still indulged in this primitive form of amusement, and the distance which was 
yet to be covered before comedy could safely avail itself of the feminine ele- 
ment as it is, — witty and practical, as well as tender, — and so prepare to 
fulfil its peculiar function as the conserver of society. For, until it recognizes 
that women constitute the social other-half, the comic spirit has not come 
into full possession of its possibilities ; it has not produced comedy, for it has 
not given us a full and undistorted reflex of life. This is a fact so rarely con- 
sidered that I cannot refrain from quoting Mr. George Meredith. ** Comedy," 
he says, in his excellent essay on its Idea — " comedy lifts women to a station 
offering them free play for their wit, as they usually show it, when they have 
it, on the side of sound sense. The higher the comedy, the more prominent 
the part they enjoy in it. . . . The heroines of comedy are like women 
of the world, not necessarily heartless for being clear-witted : they seem so to 
the sentimentally reared only for the reason that they use their wits, and are 
not wandering vessels crying for a captain or a pilot. Comedy is an exhi- 
bition of their battle with men, and of men with them : and as the two, 
however divergent, both look on one object, namely, Hfe, the gradual simi- 
larity of their impressions must bring them to some resemblance. The comic 
poet dares to show us men and women coming to this mutual likeness ; he is 
for saying that, when they draw together in social life, their minds grow 
hker ; just as the philosopher discerns the similarity of boy and girl, until the 
girl is marched away to the nursery." Of course, if the ways of man and 



Ixii An Historical View 

maid iiii society ever grew to be exactly alike, comedy would die of inanition. 
Consequently, though I say that comedy requires for the sexes equality of 
social privilege, I do not mean identity. The synalcepha of the sexes — such 
as some extremists, political and pedagogical, project — would just as surely 
destroy comedy as in former days the inequality of the sexes dwarfed it. The 
sentimental and romantic give-and-take is as essential to society as the intel- 
lectual, and as essential to comedy as to society. 



8. The Dramatic Contribution of the Older Morals 

Before discussing the period of transition upon which comedy now enters, 
it will be advantageous to determine, if possible, what contributions to the 
methods of comedy should be credited distinctively to this moral or moral 
interlude during the years that preceded the change, that is, from 1380 to 
1520. Certainly not the introduction of the separate play, as is frequently 
supposed, nor the substitution of immediate and familiar interests for those 
that were remote, nor of the invented plot for the traditional, and the signifi- 
cant for the spectacular. Though some of these features distinguish the 
evolution of the allegorical play, one and another of them is also to be recog- 
nized at as early a period, or earlier, in those forms of the drama, kindred 
and unrelated, that I have already described, — the miracle, the saint's play, the 
farce, and the secular festival play. 1 should say that, so far as the materials of 
drama are concerned, the advances peculiar to the allegorical play were, from 
the use of the scriptural dramatis persona, frequently instrumental and therefore 
wooden, to the use of the dynamic ; and from the historical or traditional indi- 
vidual to the representative of a type. These are substitutions important to 
our subject, for, that the individual should come to the front is, as ten Brink 
has well said, a characteristic of tragedy, whereas in comedy it is the typical 
that is emphasized, to the end that in an example which is typical the follies 
of the age may be liberally, and at the same time impersonally, embodied and 
chastised. By virtue of its didactic purpose and its allegorical form, more- 
over, the moral play must ascribe to its dramatis persons adequate motives of 
action. It therefore must and does make an attempt, even though rude, at 
the preservation of psychological probability in the analysis and development 
of these motives. Once the dramatic person has been labelled with the name 
of a quality, not as appraised from without and denoted by a patronymic 
common to dozens beside himself, but from within and specified by his etho- 
nymic (if I may coin the word), he is no longer a chance acquaintance of the 
dramatist or the public, but the representative of an ethical family. In the 



I 



of English Comedy Ixiii 

moral play the characters stand for or against some convention, — educational, 
ethical, political, religious, — that is to say, social in the broadest sense. With 
the advent of such characters, therefore, the social drama receives an impulse. 
Its hero serves to justify or to satirize an institution ; for that end he exists. 
And therefore in the handhng of motives the moral makes a genuine advance 
in the direction of comedy, both critical and ideal. 

We notice next that the author of this kind of drama finds it necessary to 
devise situations for exploiting the idiosyncrasies of his principal characters ; 
and that, even though the characters be disguised as abstractions, the friction 
of what is dynamic with what is real results in something vivid and concrete. 
I do not mean to say that the dramatist has learned how to develop character, 
but how to display or manifest it. Skill in the portrayal of character in 
process of growth came but slowly, and with the passage of the allegorical play 
into the drama of real life. As to the portrayal of motives and emotions in 
their complexity, that is an art much more refined, to which the writers of the 
moral never attained, even though they enriched their abstractions with borrow- 
ings from theologians, philosophers, and poets, for in dealing with abstractions 
at all they were dealing with Hfe at second hand. Indeed, complex char- 
acters can hardly be found in English drama before the various tentative dra- 
matic species had merged themselves in the polytypic plays with which 
comedy, properly so called, made its appearance. The allegorical dramatists 
found also, like the writers of the later miracle and farce, that critical situations 
demanded plain language and unsophisticated manners ; and if, in these respects, 
the realism of the moral excels that of the earlier miracle, it is perhaps because 
of the superior dynamic quality of the moral dramatis persona. 

Mr. Courthope and other writers on the drama have conjectured that the 
improvement characteristic of the allegorical playwright was one to which he 
was driven of necessity, namely, the introduction, and consequently the in- 
vention, of a continuous plot. But there was nothing new in the invention of 
plot. The novelty, if any, was in the distinctively comic nature of the plot- 
movement most suitable to the purpose of this kind of drama. In tragedy, 
the movement must be economic of its ups and downs : once headed down- 
ward, it must plunge, with but one or two vain recovers, to the abyss. In 
comedy, on the other hand, though the movement is ultimately upward, the 
crises are more numerous ; the oftener the individual stumbles without break- 
ing his neck, and the more varied his discomfitures, so long as they are tem- 
porary, the better does he enjoy his ease in the cool of the day. Tragic 
effects may be intense and longer drawn out, but they must be few ; in 
comedy, the effects are many, sudden, fleeting, kaleidoscopic. You can en- 
joy a long, delicious shudder, but not a long-spun joke, or a joke frequently 



Ixiv An Histo'rical View 

repeated, or many jokes of the same kind. Hence the peculiar movement of 
the plot in comedy. Now, the novelty of the plot in the moral play, lay in 
the fact that the movement was of this oscillating, upward kind, — a kind 
unknown as a rule to the miracle, whose conditions were less fluid, and to the 
farce, which was too shallow and superficial. The heart of the * moral ' 
hero was a batdeground ; as in comedy, the interest was in the vicissitudes of 
the conflict and the certainty of peace. Though the purpose of the moral 
play was didactic and reformatory, its doctrine was optimistic and its end to 
encourage ; and one of the distinctive contributions of the moral play to the 
English comedy was the movement suitable to these conditions, not the in- 
troduction of a continuous or connected plot. When Mr. Courthope further 
speaks of the moral plays as if they were the sole link of connection between 
the later miracle plays and the regular drama, and imphes that the ** morality " 
was unique in its introduction of a leading personage, who may be called the 
hero of the play, he is attributing to it qualities that existed in contemporary 
species of the dramatic kind. As to the statement that the moral play arose, 
as if a new kind of play, from some modification of the miracle play, on the 
one hand by secular and comic interests, and on the other by allegorical 
motives and materials, I think that sufficient has been elsewhere said in this 
article to show that secular and comic interests existed in the miracle play with- 
out altering its essence, both before and after the moral had come into promi- 
nence, and that allegorical motives and materials had developed themselv^es into 
the moral pageant and play before the miracle was visibly affected by them. 

9. The Period of Transition : Farce and Romantic Interlude 

The period of experimentation or transition, which may be said to extend 
from 1520 to 1553, is characterized especially by the gradual abandonment 
of allegorical machinery and abstract material. The forward movement is, 
of course, primarily due to the change from the mediaeval attitude of mind to 
that of the renaissance, from artificial thought whose medium, the symbol, suc- 
ceeded in concealing more than it expressed, to experience. Of the social and 
political conditions which prepared the way for the transition so far as English 
comedy is concerned or that shaped comedy once on its way, I cannot here 
speak, but the following would appear am^l^ purely literary antecedents : 
First, the French softies and farces, the t^hnical and satirical qualities of 
which were a stimulus to invention, not only in England, but in Italy and 
Germany ; second, the disputations and d'ebats, veritable whetstones of wit 
and a polish of words ad unguem ; third, the collateral development of a 



of English Comedy Ixv 

farce interlude in England, composed in Latin and English, probably also in 
Norman French, but generally spontaneous, and wholly unforced ; fourth, 
the adaptation to dramatic and satirical purposes of contcs, fabiiauXi novelle, 
and their English translations and congeners, — more especially the Chaucerian 
episode with its concrete characters and contemporary manners ; fifth, the 
movement of native romance urged during the fifteenth and earlier sixteenth 
centuries by contact with Spanish and Italian ideals and their fictions of 
character, adventure, and intrigue ; sixth, the discipline of Plautiiie and Te- 
rentian models, and of the Latin and vernacular comedies which imitated 
them, as well as of the Latin school plays which flourished in Holland and 
Germany during the latter half of the fifteenth century ; and seventh, the 
examples set by Kirchmayer and other German controversiahsts in the 
attempted adaptation of the moral play to historical or quasi-historical condi- 
tions with a view to satirical ends. 

The plays that call for consideration in this section and the next may be 
classified roughly as farces, romantic interludes, school interludes, and contro- 
versial morals. Each of these kinds reaches a culmination conformable to its 
nature, within the limits that I have chosen for the period ; and each has its own 
place in the history of comedy. For it must not be supposed that, because 
a pastoral farce like the Mak did not develop into independent existence, or 
because moral interludes gradually exhausted their career towards the end of 
the sixteenth century, such species had no influence in maturing English 
comedy. The peculiar quality and charm of our comedy is that, deriving 
from sources not only distinct, but remote in literary habitat, — scriptural, 
allegorical, farcical, pastoral, romantic, classical, historical, or purely native 
and social, — it has not dissipated itself in a thousand streamlets, but has 
carried down deposits from each tributary at its best. In Love' s Labor'* s 
Lost, Two J?igry Women, As Tou Like Lt, Old Wives'' Tale, Every Man 
in His Humour, we find, as in a miner's pan, 'colours' from vastly difi^erent 
soils. 

Of the indebtedness of comedy to the parody of religious festivals I have 
already spoken, and I have little doubt that at later periods English comedy 
continued to draw devices, if not inspiration, from performances whose occa- 
sion was a revolt .against the straitness of religion. One, at least, of the 
interludes of John Hey wood is closely similar to the French Farce de Fernet, 
and that such farces were, in motive, first a gloss upon the lessons of the divine 
service, then a diversion, and finally a factor in the extra-ecclesiastical Feast of 
Fools, any reader of Petit de Julleville will readily concede. It is impossible 
that the comic features and comic characters of the farces acted by the clercs 
de la Basoche, such as that of the immortal Maitre Pathelin, should not have 



Ixvi An Historical View 

affected the dramatic invention of contemporary and succeeding Englishmen, 
conversant as many of them were with the Hterature and society of France. 
And a Hke effect might naturally be expected to have been exercised by the 
softies of the contemporary enfa?its satis souci ,• for, through the fourteenth and 
fifteenth centuries, drama of that kind convulsed the sides of merrymakers 
south of the Channel. Such were the occasion and motive of farces and 
sotties. So far as they employed the plot of domestic intrigue for their pur- 
poses of satire, I have little doubt that they drew freely upon the Latin elegiac 
comedies of which I have already spoken as the favourite dramatic species of 
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The Farce de Fernet has connection 
with more than one of those imitations of Terentian intrigue. It has, also, 
Hke many of its kind and of elegiac comedies as well, a kinship with one and 
another popular tale. The church, then, seems to have furnished the oppor- 
tunity for these farces, and for some as an object of satire the motive ; the 
contes and fabliaux of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries fur- 
nished much of the material ; Latin comedy, its mediaeval and renaissance 
successors, cannot have failed to influence the form. 

It will be, of course, recalled that as early as the Mak of the Towneley 
plays, a farce which is not unworthy of comparison with Maitre Fathelin, 
the Enghsh Interludium de Clerico et Fuelhy probably of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, also indicated an acquaintance with the technique of the farce species. 
Undoubtedly such interludes were a common feature at entertainments of vari- 
ous kinds, and had matured in the ordinary course into fixed form. But they 
were frequently extemporaneous, were written for fleeting occasions, and 
might readily be lost. I am inclined therefore, to look upon the dramatized 
anecdotes assigned to Hey wood as lucky survivals of a form which, since it 
had been long cultivated both in England and France, may have attained to 
a degree of excellence before he took it up. The resemblance of these farces 
to the French is often such that, as M. Jusserand says, one cannot but ques- 
tion whether Hey wood had not some of the old French dramas of the type in 
his hands. Since Mr. Pollard has discussed the question in this volume, it is 
unnecessary for me to pursue it farther. In any case, it is to the honour of 
Heywood that he brought to focus the characteristic qualities of the Chauce- 
rian episode, the farce and the dramatic debate. ** This I write," says he, 
**not to teach, but to touch." In his work, accordingly, we find narratives 
of single and independent interest, if not exactly plot, and an adaptation of 
that which is abstract to purposes of amusement. We find characters with 
motive, and sometimes personality, conternporary manners, witty dialogue, 
satire ; and in at least the Flay of Love, ^n adumbration of the sentimental, 
dare we say romantic, possibilities of comedy, to be realized when it should 



of English Comedy Ixvii 

have thrown allegory and scholasticism to the winds. The Laundress in the 
Wether envisages fleetingly the straits of life and the recompense ; and in the 
Play of Love t the personification of various phases of that passion is a kind of 
glass through which we darkly divine the motives of many later comedies. 
There is, however, with the single exception of the Vice's trick in Love, no 
action which can be called dramatic in Hey wood's undoubted plays ; for, as 
Mr. Pollard reminds us, the Pardoner and Joha?i, although they avail them- 
selves of ** business " in order to develop a plot, have not the significance of 
comedy proper. 

To understand the nature of the movements that follow we must recur, 
though with the utmost brevity, to the history of later Latin comedy. The 
comic recitals of the twelfth century and thereabout were succeeded by the 
comedy of the Italian humanists, still in Latin, but dramatic in form and appar- 
ently in intent, which, though it availed itself, hke the elegiac school, of the 
outworn situations and devices of scabrous amours, contributed considerably to 
the enrichment of the romantic strain by the passion with which it invested its 
material, sometimes, also, to the cause of realism by its unconscious, though 
often repulsive, accuracy of detail. Although Plautus is to some extent culti- 
vated, the Terentian model was still the favourite with youthful imitators until 
study of the older poet was revived by the recovery of the tw^elve lost plays and 
their introduction to Roman circles in 1427. The Philologia of Petrarch's 
earher years is accordingly fashioned in the style of Terence, and is even 
reported, for it is unfortunately lost, to have surpassed its classical forbears. 
Written about 1 3 3 1 , it was the first product of the new dramatic school, 
and was succeeded by a numerous train of ambitious effusions, — university 
plays we might call most of them, — a few witty, some sentimental, many 
libidinous, all very young, and still all, or nearly all, cleverly and regularly 
constructed. It concerns us here but to mention the Paulus of Vergerio, 
which Creizenach dates 1370, Aretino's Poliscene, about 1390, Alberti's 
PhilodoxeoSy 141 8, Ugolino's Philogena, some time before 1437, and Picco- 
lomini's CrinSy 1444.^ Of these erotic comedies, — pornographic were per- 
haps a more fitting term, — the most popular seems to have been the Philogena ; 
the most eminent, according to Creizenach (but I don't see why), the C*-isis. 
The Paulus pretends to aim at the improvement of youth ; one might for a 
moment imagine that it was intended to be a prodigal son play. But in none 
of these plays is there either punishment or repentance. In fact the unaffected 
verve with which they display the wantonness of life is not the least of their 
contributions to comedy. The Poliscene is notable for its modernity of man- 

1 For some of these see Quadrio, Delia Storia e della Ragione d'' ogni Poesia, Vol. III., 
Lib. II., 53 et seq. 



Ixviii An Historical View 

ners and of morals. The sole instance among these plays, so far as I can 
ascertain, of noble sentiment and harmless plot is the Philodoxeos, The use 
of abstract names for the characters lends it, indeed, somewhat the appearance 
of a moral interlude. 

Of much greater value, however, in the history of the acted drama, and 
of closer bearing upon the English comedy, were the representations of Plautus 
and Terence, first in the Latin and ultimately in the vernacular, which marked 
the last quarter of the fifteenth century in the courts of northern Italy. These 
in turn were but stepping-stones towards such dramatic dialogues as the Timone 
of Bojardo, 1494, and the still more significant experiments of Ariosto and 
Bibbiena — the first romantic comedies in prose and in the native tongue. 
The authors of the Suppositi (acted in 1509) and the Calandria (written in 
1508, but not presented till six years later) derive much from Roman 
sources, but in general these comedies and their like were original. Their 
influence upon our own plays of romantic intrigue will presently appear. 
So, likewise, will that of a Spanish work, of even earlier date, the dramatic 
novel of Calisto a?id Meliboea ; for this tragic production of Cota and De 
Rojas is the source of our first English romantic drama. The connection 
between other forms of Italian drama, the Commedia decP arte, the pastoral 
drama, etc., and the later stage in western Europe has been ably discussed by 
Klein, Moland, Symonds, and Ward ; and to them I must refer the reader 
of this more summary account. 

The decade that saw the first of Hey wood's virile plays was probably 
that which welcomed to England the ebullient, un-English passions of a dra- 
matic species destined to develop the native stock in a far different manner. 
** A new commodye in englyshe, in maner of an enterlude," ordinarily called 
Calisto and Melibceay is the earliest romantic play of intrigue in our language. 
It was "caused to be printed" by that excellent promoter of the dramatic 
art, John Rastell, about 1530, and was written — perhaps by him — not long 
before. The appellation ** commodye " had been used during the same decade 
with reference to the English translation of the Andria (about 1520-29) ; 
it is here used for the first time on the title-page of an English play. And this 
interesting interlude may, indeed, w'ell be called both English and comedy ; 
for though it derives from romance sources (the Spanish dramatic composition 
by Fernando de Rojas, before 1500), and is affected by the Italian, it does 
not follow exactly the plot of its original ; and jthough it is ** reduced to the 
proportions of an interlude," it treats of an idea *ftpt farcical, but significant, 
and it develops the motives of real characters, by way of action, passion, and 
intrigue, to a happy conclusion within the realm of convention and common 
sense. It is, indeed, a comedy, perhaps our first well-rounded comedy. 



of English Comedy Ixix 

though in miniature. The Secunda Pastorum it excels in singleness of aim ; 
the Pardoner and Frere and the Johany in meaning for life. It excels all 
preceding interludes in the fulfilment of the purpose, now for the first thne 
announced in English drama, <* to shew and to describe as well the bewte 
and good propertes of women as theyr vyces and evyll condicions." For 
the first time since plays became secular, women are introduced, not as the 
objects of scurrility and ridicule, but as dramatic material of an aesthetic, 
moral, and intellectual value equal to that of men. What the author of Johan 
did for the amusing and real action desirable in a comedy, the author of this 
play did for vital characterization and passion. Meliboea is the first heroine 
of our romantic comedy ; she is so fair that for her lover there is ** no such 
sovereign in heaven, though she be in earth." She is, if the play was written 
before the P/ay of Love, our earliest heroine ** loved, not loving." She is a 
woman and pitiful and to be wooed ; frail and repentant ; but then indignant 
and not to be won. Calisto is, likewise, our first lover in despair. This 
element of woman worship — not worship of the Blessed Virgin or traditional 
interest in the Magdalene or any other saint — is no shght contribution to the 
material of comedy. The intrigue of the play, — the foils of character and 
action, the go-betweens, the plot within plot introduced by Celestina, her 
realistic account of Sempronio's character, her device of the ** girdle," the mys- 
terious agency of the dream, — no better indication of romantic tendency can 
be detected until we reach Redford's play of Wit and Science, of which pres- 
ently. But first, and that we may keep in mind the parallelism of dramatic 
tendencies in this momentous first half of the sixteenth century, let us turn to 
another stream, that of the school interludes and the classical influence. 



10. The Period of Transition : School Interlude and Controversial Moral 

During the fifteenth century, and the early sixteenth, influences of impor- 
tance to English comedy proceed not from the Hterature of Italy and Spain alone. 
In northern Europe additions most significant to the history of the type were 
making. To the crop of French sotties, moralites, and farces I have already 
referred. The German Reuchlin in 1498 put forth a roaring Latin comedy 
called the Henno, which, in modern Terentian style, embodied the chicaneries 
of Pathelin. About the same time the Germans began to make the ac- 
quaintance, through translations in their own tongue, of highly flavoured 
Italian Latin plays like the Poliscene and the Phiiogenia ; while those of them 
who cared not for such things were favoured with a recrudescence of the 
Christian Terence school. In i 507 the young humanist, Kiliau Reuter, in 



Ixx An Historical View 

imitation of the nun of Gandersheim, produced in Latin his pious comedy- 
depicting the passion of St. Dorothea. In Holland, meanwhile, were 
springing into existence the Latin prototypes of more than one of our own 
didactic interludes ; for in the comedia sacra the attempt was made to com- 
bine the intrigue of the Italian university play with the moral of the prodigal 
son and the technique of the Terentian drama. The more important of these 
plays of the prodigal son, in respect of influence upon Enghsh comedy, are 
the Asotus of Macropedius, written before 1529, and his Rebelles, 1535, the 
Acolastus of Gnapheus, i 529, and the Studentes of Stymmelius, i 549. The 
most dramatic of them are the second and third as mentioned. The Acolastus ^ 
indeed, translated into English by Palsgrave in i 540, exerted a long-enduring 
influence upon our drama. To the same period belong also a species of bib- 
lical comedies deahng with heroes, like the Joseph of the Dutch Jesuit, Cro- 
cus, 1535, and the Susanna^ Judithy Eli, Ruth, Job, Solomon , Goliathy etc., 
of Macropedius, the Swiss Sixt Birck, and others ; and another, kind of play 
that occupied itself with prototypes of the Roman Antichrist, — Haman, 
Judas, and the like. The former may be called the idyllic or heroic miracle, 
the latter the polemic. And of the latter the most influential development 
was the controversial interlude, PammachiuSy written by the German Protestant 
Naogeorgos (Kirchmayer) and dedicated to the Archbishop of Canterbury. 
By 1545 this play, in which the Pope figures as the Antichrist, had not only 
been acted at Cambridge in the original, but translated into English by our 
own John Bale ; and, as we shall presently see, it was, somewhere between 
1540 and 1548, imitated by him in one of the most vigorous of our contro- 
versial dramas.^ 

Of the cultivation of the drama in Latin in England I have already made 
mention in treating of the saints' plays and the Terentian drama of the twelfth 
and thirteenth centuries. Other indications of a Latin drama occur, although 
infrequently. William Fitzstephen, who speaks of the ludus given by Geof- 
frey's boys at Dunstable, tells us, also, that it was customary on feast days 
for masters of schools to hold festival meetings in the churches, when the 
pupils contested, not only in disputations, but also with Fescennine hcense in 
satirical verses touching ** the faults of school-fellows or perhaps of greater 
people" ; a practice which could only with difficulty escape development 
into a rude Aristophanic comedy. We have mention also of perquisites for a 
comaedia in one of the Cambridge colleges as early as 1386, evidently of the 
Latin type, and of the presentation of a goodly comedy of Plautus at court in 
1520. Between 1522 and 1532 the Master of St. Paul's produced a Latin 



1 For the substance of this paragraph see the histories of Klein, Herford, and Creizenach. 



i 



of English Comedy Ixxi 

school drama of Dido before Wolsey, and according to Collier's supposition/ 
the same John Ritwyse was the author of the satiric interlude, in Latin and 
French, of Luther and his wife, which was acted for the delectation of the 
not yet reformed Henry and his foreign guests in 1527. Of the nature of 
this play, unfortunately lost, some conception may be gathered from the still sur- 
viving list of its characters (allegorical, religious, and contemporary), from the 
analogous Ludus Indent em Luderum ludens^ I530» and the somewhat more re- 
cent and most scurrilous Monachopornomachia, both by Germans. Before 1530 
and apparently with a view to acting, the Jfidria had been turned into Eng- 
hsh,^ and by 1535 at least two Latin comedies of moral-mythological character 
had been written by Artour of Cambridge, and one, the Piscatory by Hoker 
of Oxford.^ We have word of a dramatic pageant in English and Latin to 
which Udall contributed in 1532 ; in 1534 he issued a book of selections 
entided Flowers of Terence. In 1540 Palsgrave had introduced the prodigal 
son drama from Germany; and by 1545 Bale had followed suit with a 
Latin play of Antichrist. During the same period Udall was producing his 
p lures comae dice y now lost, and that other schoolmaster-dramatist, RadclifFe 
of Hitchin, was writing spectacula simul jucunda et honesta for his boys 
to present, — heroic miracles of the type affected by Macropedius, and a 
romantic comedy of Griselda, probably all in Latin, but unfortunately all 
vanished. 

The importance of the English school drama has been well presented by 
Professor Herford and Dr. Ward, but there is something in the name that 
leads the ordinary reader to underrate the genus. A word or so by way 
of classification may be of assistance. These interludes fall naturally into 
four kinds. Those that ridicule folly, vain pretension, and conceit, or 
Mirth plays, — plays after the model of Plautus, mock-heroic, or purely 
diverting, like the Thersytes. Those that are pedagogical in tendency, 
directed against idleness and ignorance, or Wit plays. They began with 
Rastell's Four Elements, and reached their highest mark in the Contract 
between Witt and Wisdome. Those that portray the conflict with the ex- 
cesses and lusts of the flesh, or Youth plays. They consist of such pro- 
ductions as Mankynd, Nature, Hyckescorner, and reach their climax, about 
1554, ^" ^^^ Interlude of Youth. The school drama includes, in the last 
place, a series corrective of parental indulgence and filial disobedience, aptly 
called Prodigal Son plays. These are patterned upon Terence, but follow the 
manner of Dutch school plays like the Acolastus or of the still earlier French 

1 E. Dr. Po.^ I. 107, from Gibson's Accounts. 

2 Warton, H. Eng. Po. {i^li), IV. 323. 

3 Herford, Lit. Re/., pp. 107-108. 



Ixxii An Historical View 

moralitesy Bien-Avise et Mal-Avise, U Homme pecheur, and Les En/ants de 
Maijitenajit. They make more or less use of the scriptural motif and are 
sometimes tragical. In the period under consideration their best representatives 
are the Nice Wajiton and the Disobedierit Child, From the point of view of 
comedy the first of these kinds, the Mirth play, occupies a place by itself; for, 
though it may sometimes intend to teach, it always aims at, and achieves, 
laughter. To the three remaining kinds, we must for convenience, join, 
however, another which, though not of the school species, is primarily 
didactic, — 1 mean the controversial interlude. This includes Bale's King 
Johafiy Wever's Lusty "Juventusy and the Respublica. 

In the Mirth play, ThersyteSy the influence of Plautus is evident, — a school 
play, to be sure, but written with a view to amusement or rollicking satire 
rather than instruction. Acted in 1537, this **enterlude" has for its hero a 
<*ruffler forth of the Greke lande " whose *'crakying" stands half-way be- 
tween the classical Pyrgopolinices and Thraso and the modern Roister Doister. 
For all its academic flavour, the burlesque is coarse and crude, but still 
genuinely humorous. It deserves notice, in especial, for the variety of its 
contents, chivalric, romantic, popular, scriptural as well as Greek and Latin ; 
also for its artistic exhibition of the braggart, — the leisurely proceeding of 
his discomfiture, the subordination of other characters to that end ; and for 
its mastery of technical devices, — concealment, magic, the play upon the 
word, and that hunting of the word and letter which was so soon to drive 
conversation out of its wits. As an interlude of foreign origin, the Thersytes 
has a place in the development of the comic element somewhat analogous 
to that of the Calisto in the development of the romantic. As far as the 
quality of mirth is concerned it might be classed with Roister Doister and Jacke 
Jugeler ; but those plays are much more highly developed in form and spirit, 
and must be reserved for consideration with the polytypic, and early regular, 
comedy. 

The remaining classes of interlude are manifestly didactic ; those of Wit 
and Youth derive, however, more directly from native sources, while those 
of the Prodigal Son have close affiliation with the Christian Terence of the 
continental humanists. 

'Redford's W'^t and Sciencey composed probably between 1541 and 1547, 
is, in form and intent, like Lusty Juventus and other survivals of the moral 
interlude. It differs, however, in company with the Four Elements and 
other Wit plays, in substituting a scientific for a religious purpose ; and it 
adds a feature not to be found in earlier kinds of moral, a chivalrous ideal 
of love and adventure, academic, to be sure, but unmistakable. This ap- 
pears in the wooing of Lady Science by Wyt, and his encounter with the 



I 



of English Comedy Ixxiii 

tyrant or fiend Tediousness **for my dere hartes sake to wynne my spurres ; " 
in the hero's inconstancy, defeat, and subsequent success, and in the dramatic 
employment of romantic instruments and tokens, such as the magic glass 
and the sword of comfort ; also in the love songs. All of these and 
similar features of which the sources are not entirely continental make 
for the development of a romantic and humanistic drama. It may be 
worth noticing, moreover, that the fiend of the play is neither Vice nor 
Devil. He seems to be a cross between the Devil of the miracles and 
a monster of native as well as scriptural ancestry (an early draft of Giant 
Despair), who figures in a modernization of this play. The Marriage of 
iVitte and Science. In chronological sequence the next of the Wit plays 
is the Contract of a Marrige betweene Wit and Wis dome (not Wit and 
Science y as Professor Brandl has it). This was probably written about 
the same time as the Lusty Jwucntus. The mention of the King's most 
** royal majestic" and the appearance of the Vice Idleness as a priest would 
point to a date earlier than 1553, while the resemblance to Redford's play, 
though by no means close, indicates posteriority to that much cruder produc- 
tion. The division into acts and scenes is, on the other hand, less elaborate 
than that obtaining in the latest play of this series, The Marriage of Witte 
and Science. The Contract is altogether the most meritorious of those academic 
predecessors of the drama of the Prodigal Son which introduce the indul- 
gent mother as a motive force. While the conception is formal and didactic, 
the action avails itself, like Redford's play, of the romantic element involved 
in the perilous adventure for love. The Contract, moreover, startles the 
sober atmosphere of the moral. interlude by a rapidity of movement, a com- 
bination of plots major and minor, a diversity of subordinate characters and 
incidents altogether unprecedented. The racy and natural wit, the equi- 
voque, the actual, even if vulgar, humanity of the scenes from low life, 
and the skill with which the Mother Bees, the Dols and Lobs, Snatches 
and Catches, the Constable, and the thoroughly rustic Vice with his actual 
resemblance to Diccon the Bedlem, are dovetailed into the action, — these 
properties make this a very commendable predecessor, not only of Gammer 
Gurton, but of certain plays of Dekker and Jonson where similar features 
obtain. With the Contract, the interlude of this kind attains its climax. 
The Marriage of Witte and Science, which is a revision of Redford's play 
of similar name, must also be mentioned here, although it is a postliminious 
specimen of the type. Not licensed until 1569—70, and, according to 
Fleay, acted as Wit and Will, 1567-78,^ it adds nothing vital to the plot 
or characters of its model. Still, in literary and dramatic handling, it is 

1 History of the Stage, p, 64. 



Ixxiv An Historical View 

an example of the perfection to which the moral play could come. Collier, 
indeed, has said that it was the first play of its kind regularly divided into 
acts and scenes with indication of the same : but that is not true, for the 
Respublica of 1553 has five acts and the proper arrangement in scenes; 
and so have other plays of 1553 or earlier, though of difi^erent kind, like the 
Jacob and Esau. 

If now we pass to the Youth plays, we shall find in the Interlude of Youth 
(about I 554) the culmination of dramatic efforts to portray the sowing of wild 
oats, — efforts avowedly moral in purpose, but with a reminiscent smack of the 
lips and a fellow-feeling for the scapegrace. The Interlude of Youth is char- 
acterized neither by the unbridled merriment of the Miles Gloriosus type nor by 
the depth or pathos of dramas portraying solicitous par-ents and prodigal sons ; 
but it paves the way for * tragical ' comedies of this latter class, and is infi- 
nitely more dramatic, because more human, than the pedagogical onslaughts 
upon idleness, irksomeness, ignorance, and the like of which we- have just 
treated. It has, perhaps, not been noticed that the Interlude of Youth holds 
about the same relation to Hyckescorner in matter of motive and treatment that 
Hyckescorner holds to the Four Elements and Mankyndy — indeed, a closer 
relation, for in many details of character, device, situation, as well as by literal 
transference of language, it borrows from Hyckescorner. This as indicating the 
descent of the species is in itself interesting. But the present play generally 
improves upon all that it derives. In addition, the vivid conversation, shrewd 
and waggish wit, local colouring, atmosphere of taverns, dicing, cards, and 
worse iniquities, justify, I think, the statement that it is at once the most 
realistic, amusing, and gracefiil specimen of its kind. It is, at any rate, as 
artistic as a didactic interlude could permit itself to be. 

One cannot consider the so-called Prodigal Son interludes, without observ- 
ing that the theme itself supplies an opportunity for the enlargement of dra- 
matic endeavour. For these productions are directed as much against parental ■ 
indulgence as against filial disobedience. The ** Preaty Interlude called Nice I 
JVanton,*^ printed in 1560, was written before the death of Edward VI. 
Though it may have derived suggestions from the Rebelles ^ of Macropedius, 
1535, it is of its own originality and dramatic merit, in my opinion, the best 
of its class in English at the time of writing. While it presents a mixture of 
scriptural, classical, and moral elements, it is essentially a modern production. 

1 Brandl, Snellen, LXII, ; cf. Herford, Lit. ReL, p. 156. To trace the suggestion of the 
model of Barnabas to the Studentes of Stymmelius, 1549, is, I think, absurd. It is strange 
that Creizenach, Gescb. d. neu. Dr., I. 470, should assert, in face of the Nice Wanton and The 
Glasse of Government, that no English ' moral ' avails itself of two representatives of the 
human race — a good and an evil. 



of English Comedy Ixxv 

The allegorical lingers only in the character of Worldly Shame. If this be 
eliminated, there remains a play with realistic, romantic, and ideal qualities, an 
air of probability, and a plot well conceived and excellently completed. 
Iniquity, or Baily errand, is a concrete Vice, working by actual and possible 
methods. The unfortunate heroine and the well-contrasted pairs of mothers 
and sons are manifest not only by their deeds but by the opinions o'l those who 
know them. The plot, in other words, grows out of the characters ; it is 
full of incident, and it falls naturally into acts, which have been elaborated in 
various and dramatically interesting scenes. The movements, on the one hand 
toward a catastrophe, on the other toward the triumph of right living, are con- 
ducted with skilful suspense, surprise, discovery, and revolution, and are well 
interwoven. The conversations and songs are racy or sober according to the 
conditions ; the combination of sesthetic quahties, comic, tragic, and pathetic, is 
an agreeable advance upon the inartistic extremes afforded by most of the contem- 
porary interludes of moral intent. The next of these plays, the **pretie and 
mery new interlude called The Disobedient Child, by Thomas Ingeland, late 
Student at Cambridge," was acted, Mr. Fleay thinks, before Elizabeth in 
March, 1560-61. Though it was not published till 1564, it was certainly, 
like the Nice Wanton, written before 1553. The purpose is serious and the 
conclusion almost tragic, but the play contributes to the comedy of domestic 
satire. If the main characters were but indicated by name, like those below 
stairs, Blanche and Long-Tongue, this picturesque and wholly dramatic inter- 
lude would have attracted more notice than has been vouchsafed it. Its literary 
merits, verse, poetic feeling and expression, and its natural dialogue entitle it 
to high consideration ; its decidedly novel dramatic qualities, even though they 
bear a general resemblance to the Studentes ^ of Stymmelius, rank it with the 
Nice Wanton as one of the most vigorous of our early representatives of the 
dramatic actualities of family life. 

For reasons which I have already indicated, the controversial plays of the 
period between 1520 and 1553 may be considered here. The first of these 
in chronological order is Bale's King Johan, about 1540-47, with later 
insertions in the author's hand. Its relation to Lyndsay's satire of the Thrie 
Estatis is well known ; and Professor Herford ^ has indicated its indebtedness 
also to the Pammachius and the Protestant version of the antichrist legend. 
It is a dramatic satire on the abuses of the church, its riches, orders, brother- 
hoods, confessionals, simony, free thought, mummery (judaistic and pagan), 
Latin ritual, hagiolatry, and papal supremacy. Few more excellent embodi- 
ments of the Vice have been preserved than the Sedycyon of this play, who 
in every estate of the clergy plays a part, sometimes monk, sometimes nun, or 

1 Brandl, ^ellen, LXXIII. ; and Herford, Lit. Rel. 2 ^rV. Rel., p. 135. 



Ixxvi An Historical View 

canon, or chapter-house monk, or Sir John, or the parson, or the bishop, or 
the friar, or the purgatory priest and every man's wife's desire : — 

** Yea, to go farder, sumtyme I am a cardynall ; 
Yea, sumtyme a pope and than am I lord over all, 
Both in hevyn and erthe and also in purgatory. 
And do weare iij crownes whan I am in my glorye. " 

In spite of Professor Schelling's^ recent rejection o^ King Johan irom the 
list of chronicle plays, I cannot but agree with Dr. Ward that this moral is 
of considerable importance in the history of that species. That it uses history 
merely as the cloak for a religio-political allegory, and that it does not quite 
succeed in drawing together the points of fact and fiction in the development 
of action and character, — these defects do not alter its significance as the first 
EngHsh play to incarnate the poHtical spirit of its age in a form imaginatively 
attributed to an earlier period of native history. Although it is not a comedy, 
it concerns us here as a drama of critical and satirical intent. It is succeeded 
by plays like Lusty Juventus and Respublica, which deal more or less with 
political affairs, and interest us because they enliven the controversial by the 
introduction of the realistic and comic, and, accordingly, in an age when po- 
lemics was politics, contribute to the improvement of comedy by shaping it 
more or less to a medium for the dissemination of practical ideas. More- 
over, though Bale had no disciples in the attempt to construct an historical 
protestant drama, he may be said to have prepared the way for a protestant 
series of another kind. This is what Professor Herford has well called the 
biblical genre drama ; it is pedagogical and controversial, and, like the King 
Johan^ its representatives, also, such as the Darius and Queen Hester , had 
their precursors, and probably their models, more or less distant, in the idyllic 
or heroic miracle of the Dutch and German humanists. 

R, Wever's Lusty Juventus, written about 1550,^ is of the dramatic 
kindred of Mankynd and Nature. Its characters are allegorical in name but 
concrete in person ; and one of them, Abhominable Living, passes, also, 
under the appellation of *' htle Besse." The conversations are "sprightly, and 
the songs show considerable lyric power. But the play is a protestant 
polemic, and its success must have depended to a large extent upon the bitter- 
ness of the satire against 

1 The English Chronicle Play. 

2 Hawkins, Engl. Drama, I. 145, quotes a passage from one of Latimer's sermons in the 
presence of Edward VI., which uses the story of " drave me aboute the toune with a puddynge," 
referred to in Lusty "Ju'ventus. 



of English Comedy Ixxvii 

'* Holy cardinals, holy popes, 
Holy vestments, holy copes," 

and various alleged hypocrisies and excesses of the Church of Rome. That 
this play had a long life is shown by its insertion, though under the designa- 
tion of an interlude with which it had nothing in common,^ as a play within a 
play in the tragedy of Sir Thomas More (about 1590). The **merye En- 
terlude " Respublica, 1553, a children's Christmas play, sustains somewhat the 
same relation to political Catholicism as King Johari to Protestantism — with- 
out the polemics of dogma. Here, as in the preceding political moral of King 
jfohan, the Vice is used for a satirical purpose, and is not only the chief 
mischief-maker, but, also, the principal representative of the comic role. In 
this play, the Vice is so highly considered that the author, probably a priest, 
multiplies him by four, and, by way of foil, offsets the group with that of the 
four Virtues, daughters of God, whose presence in the eleventh Coventry play 
and in Mankynd has already been noticed. I don't see how Collier can call 
the construction of Respublica ingenious ; it is childish, clumsy, and trite. 
The humour consists in old-fashioned disguises and aliases, equivoque, misun- 
derstanding, and abuse. But the character of Avarice, who, with his money 
bags, anticipates the Suckdrys and Lucres of later comedy, is well conceived, 
the conduct natural, the language simple and colloquial. Of historical interest 
is the introduction of Queen Mary as Nemesis ; of linguistic, the attempt to 
reproduce the dialect of the common people ; of dramatic, the division into 
acts and scenes, which is to be found in but few other plays of the mid- 
century, such as Roister Doister, King JohaUy Jacob and Esau, and the Mar- 
riage of Witte and Science, 



II. Poljrtypic, or Fusion, Plays 

With the plays just mentioned each of the dramatic kinds so far considered 
reaches its artistic limit. These kinds, however, during the decades roughly 
coincident with the years between 1545 and 1566, enter into combinations, 
by virtue of which English comedy is assisted to a still further advance. 
The plays that represent this stage of literary history may be called polytypic. 
Roister Doister and Jacke Jugeler subordinate the materials of academic inter- 
lude and classical farce to classical regulations. Into the Historic of Jacob 
and Esau enter characteristics of miracle play, moral, realistic interlude, and 
classical comedy. Gammer Gurton and Tom Tyler (of about the same date) 

1 The Marriage of Wit and fVisdome. 



Ixxviii An Historical View 

subsume, under the domestic play of low life, nativ^e elements of both farce and 
moral. Mtsogofius combines elements of moral interlude and farce with 
qualities native and foreign, classical and romantic. These are followed by 
the biblical genre drama of Godly Queen Hester, partly political and partly 
pedagogical in intent. In the first five of these plays the tendency to teach 
is reduced almost to a minimum. In the Misogonus and Hester it is present, 
but is counterbalanced by romantic or satirical considerations. When, how- 
ever, we reach the Damon and Pythias and The Supposes, the didactic has 
disappeared altogether in favour of the truly artistic motive. These plays at 
last combine the comic and serious, the real, the romantic, and the ideal. 
They are constructive, not primarily critical ; in fact, they must be regarded 
as our first real comedies. 

No play of this division better illustrates the impress of the classical model 
upon native material than Roister Doister. This **comedie" or ** inter- 
lude" was certainly in existence by 1552 ; indeed, it has not yet been con- 
clusively shown that it was not acted as early as 1534 to 1541. In the last 
contingency it may have anticipated the Thersytes ,- but, according to Pro- 
fessor Fliigel's argument,^ it was probably not composed till after 1545. 
With the Thersytes it has in common several points of detail, but the essen- 
tial resemblance is, of course, in the Plautine personage of the braggart. Like 
Hey wood before him, Udall aims to produce that which **is comendable 
for a man's recreation," but the masterpiece of Udall has the advantage of 
Heywood's **mery plays," in that its mirth '' refiises scurilitie." In 
Roister Doister, also, more decidedly than in previous plays, the amusement 
proceeds not from the situation alone, but from the organism, — a plot essen- 
tially and substantially dramatic, because its characters are concrete, pur- 
posive, and interacting. But decided as was Udall' s contribution to the art 
of comic drama, we must not credit him with producing comedy proper. 
The merit of Roister Doister is in its comic intent, its skilful characterization 
and contrivance. It is a presentation of humours, — corrective indeed, but 
farcical. It is not significant, constructive, poetic, grounded in the heart as 
well as in the head. A contribution to the classical type contemporary with 
the pieceding, but of a much more farcical and juvenile appearance, is the 
** new interlued " named Jacke Jugeler, written not later than 1562 and 
perhaps as early as i 553—54 (after the reestabhshment of the Mass and before 
the terrifying revival of the sanguinary laws against heretics). It announces 
itself as a school drama, and in the prologue purports to have been derived 
from the Amphitruo of Plautus. I am inclined to think that the professed 
modesty of the author has led critics to undervalue the skill and fidelity of that 

1 See below, p. 96. 



of English Comedy Ixxix 

which was not only the best *' droll," but also the best dramatic satire pro- 
duced in England up to date. Within a narrow compass he has developed a 
humorous action quite novel in English comedy, and has introduced us, not 
only to the first English double and one of the first Enghsh practical jokers, 
but, I believe, to our first victim of confused identity. The author is, of 
course, following his Plautus, but what could be more ludicrous than the 
scene in which Jenkin, uncertain and undesirous of his own acquaintance, 
covers himself with ignominy in the effort to discard it. We are led from 
interest to interest by means of anticipation, surprise, and the clever repetition 
of comic crises. Characters well drawn Hke Dame Coy and Alison, distinct 
Hke Jacke and Jenkin, suggestive of complexity like Bongrace, were not of 
everyday occurrence in the drama of 1553. The language, too, is idiomatic, 
and the wit, though vulgar, unforced. But perhaps more significant for our 
purpose than any other feature of the play is this, that in spite of its avowed 
Eesthetic intent (even more outspoken than that of Roister Doister^y it is a 
subtle attack upon the Roman Catholic Church. This interlude, says the 
maker, citing the authority of the classics, is written for the express purpose 
of provoking mirth, and for no other purpose : it is **not worth an oyster 
shell Except percase it shall fortune to make men laugh well"; but under the 
artifice we find a parable of the doctrinal Jacke Jugeler of the day, whose mis- 
sion it was to prove that **One man may have two bodies and two faces. 
And that one man at one time may be in two places." I do not think that 
the satirical character of the play has heretofore been remarked, though the 
controversial allusions of the epilogue are, of course, well known. The 
innocence of the prologue and the profession of trifles fit for ** little boys" 
are as shrewd an irony as the dramatic attack upon transubstantiation is a 
huge burlesque. 

The third of these fiision dramas is The Historie of Jacob and Esau. 
Although its title may suggest the dignity of a miracle or the didacticism of 
a moral play, it is the reduction of the miracle to modern conditions and of 
the moral to concrete and actual characters. This **newe, mery, and wittie 
comedie, or enterlude " was hcensed in 1557, but its decidedly protestant 
character may indicate composition before Mary's accession to the throne. 
Collier is quite right in calling it one of the freshest and most effective pro- 
ductions of the kind to which it belongs. But in classifying it with early 
religious plays, because the subject happens to be scriptural, he is as far astray 
as Professor Brandl who classes it with plays of the Prodigal Son, because 
the nature of the subject suggests a faint resemblance to that species. It is an 
attempt at comedy by way of fusion. The plot is in general scriptural, but 
it introduces some half-dozen invented characters. The production aims. 



Ixxx An Historical View 

like a moral interlude, at inculcating the doctrine of predestination ; but 
like a classical comedy, it is regularly divided, dramatically constructed, and 
equipped with tried and telling comic devices. Proceeding with extreme 
care for probability, with elaboration of motive, with due preparation o 
interest, enhancement, and suspense, it attains a climax of unusual excel 
lence, considering the date of its composition. The discovery and denoue 
ment are naturally contrived ; and where the author avails himself of the 
staples of his trade, the asides, disguises, intrigues, eavesdropping, and thi 
rest, he does so with the ease of the accustomed dramatist. The play, ir 
fact, deserves as high esteem as Roister Doister and Gammer Gurtoji ; ii 
originality and regularity it is their equal, in development of a vital conceptio: 
their superior. The language is idiomatic — of the age and soil ; or dignified, 
when the mood demands. It is also free from obscenity ; but it lacks noth 
ing in wit on that account, nor the situations in humour. Viewed as a whole, 
it is a simple and unaffected picture of English rural life — the scene with its set' 
ting as well as its figures. And these are coloured from experience, forerun 
ners, indeed, of many in our better-known comedy : the young squire giver 
over to the chase, horses and dogs and the horn at break of day (much to the 
discomfort of the slumbering environment), — the careless elder born, 
victim and butt of his unnatural mother and her wily younger son ; the 
doting father, duped ; the clown ; the pert and pretty maid ; the aged nurse. 
Consider, in addition, the more subtle characteristics of the Jacob afid Esau,' 
— the family resemblances, the racial policy with its ripe and ruddy upper layer 
of morals, the romantic touch, the sometimes genuine pathos, the naive domes- 
tic revelations, the loves in low life, the unaffected charms of dialogue and 
verse, — and one must acknowledge that this play, no matter what its origin 
and name, is at least as indicative of the maturing of English drama as either 
of the plays with which I have placed it in comparison. 

Of these Gammer Gurtons Nedle was the first to gather the threads of 
farce, moral interlude, and classical school play into a well-sustained comedy 
of rustic Ufe. Mr. Henry Bradley has ingeniously shown that in all proba- 
bility it was a Christ's College play, written by William Stevenson during his 
fellowship of 1559 to 1560. There may, indeed, be reason for beheving 
that it was composed as early as the author's first fellowship, 1551—54.^ In 
this play the unregulated seductions of earlier days are brought under the 
curb of the classical manner and form : the native element already evident in 
Noah's Flood and the Shepherds' Plays, the Judicium, the Conversion of St. 
Paul, the Johan, and the Pardoner, and about this same time in the Contract 

1 See below, p. 198. ' Trueman ' in the Historia Histrionica (pr. 1699) thinks it wai 
*' writ in the reign of K. Edw. VI." 



of English Comedy Ixxxi 

betweene Wit and Wis dome (parts of which suggest forcibly the manner of 
this same Stevenson) ; the rollicking humour of the Vice turned Bedlem, the 
pithy and sahne interchange of feminine amenities ; the Atellan, sometimes 
even Chaucerian, laughter, — not sensual but animal ; the delight in physical 
incongruity ; the mediaeval fondness for the grotesque. If the situations 
are farcical, they at any rate hold together ; each scene tends towards the 
climax of the act, and each act towards the denouement. The characters 
are both typical and individual ; and though the conception is of less signifi- 
cance than that of Roister Doister, the execution is an advance because it 
smacks less of the academic. Gammer Gurton carries forward the comedy 
of mirth, but hardly yet into the rounded comedy of hfe. 

Another '* excellent old play," called Tom Tyler and His Wife^ deserves 
to be mentioned in this sequence because it combines characteristics of the farce 
in a peculiar fashion with reminiscences of the moral interlude. Tom Tyler 
was written probably between 1550 and 1560, and is an admirable portrayal 
of matrimonial infelicities in low Hfe, the forerunner of a series of "shrew" 
plays, not of the nature of the Taming, but of the Tamer Tamed. The 
temporary revolt of the husband, *' whose cake was dough," his fleeting 
triumph by the ruse of the doughty Tom Taylor, and his lapse into irremediable 
servitude, '* for wedding and hanging is destinie," these alone would make the 
farce worthy of honourable mention. But the dialogue and songs are them- 
selves of snap, verve, and wit not inferior to the best of that day ; and the 
cooperation of solemn allegorical figures, such as Destinie and Patience, in the 
humorous programme of Desire the Vice, side by side with the three lusty 
**shrowes," Typple, Sturdy, and Strife, lends to the farce a mock-moral 
appearance which entitles it to a place among these polytypic dramas historically 
unique. For it should not be regarded as an example of the moral in transition 
from abstract to concrete, but as a conscious and cleverly ironical presentation 
of a comic episode from utterly unideal life, under the form, and by the 
modes and machinery, of the pious allegorical drama. 

For the printing of the next play in this series, the Misogonus, heretofore 
accessible only in manuscript at Chatsworth, we are indebted to Professor 
Brandl.^ This interesting moral comedy was written in 1560, probably by 
Thomas Richardes,^ whose name followes the prologue. Brandl points out 
certain resemblances to the Acolastus of Gnapheus, printed 1534. The con- 
trast of the good and wayward sons might likewise be traced to the Studentes 

1 Bodl. Libr., Malone iji, ''second impression," London, 1661 j reprinted by F. E. 
Schelling, Publ. Mod. Lang. Assn., 1900. 
^ ^uellen u. Forschungen. 
* Not J. Rychardes, as Mr. Fleay has it, Hist. Stage j p. 58. 



Ixxxii An Historical View 

of Stymmelius ^ (1549), but the more evident sources are Terence, the bibli- 
cal parable, common experience, and dramatic imagination. Professor Brandl 
thinks that the play is connected with The Supposes or its source, but I 
must confess that I cannot see the remotest relation. In Mr. Fleay's opinion 
this is the earliest English comedy. I suppose because it not only applies a 
classical treatment to certain elements of romantic form, — the Italian scene and 
baronial life, — and of romantic content and method such as the ideal friend- 
ship, the discovery and recognition, but combines therewith a realistic portrayal 
of native character, and various technical qualities vital to both the serious 
and comic kinds of composition. If, however, the names of the principal 
characters had been English, the relation to the moral interlude would at once 
be evident. This is a Prodigal Son play of the humanist school, save that it 
has supplemented the general characteristics of the Christian Terence and of 
Plautus by episodes and minor characters from the native farce. Although it 
is not superior in technique to Roister or Gammer Gurto?!, it is more distinc- 
tively polytypic than either. It is, also, of broader ethical significance. But 
this dominant didactic intent renders it less of a comedy than they, and much 
less than the Jacob and Esau — which is as good a representative of the fusion 
of dramatic kinds and qualities as the Misogonus, and a better specimen of 
workmanship. The simpler characters of the Misogo7tus, Codrus, poore, but 
** trwe and trusty " ; the stammering Madge Mumbelcrust, who *' coude once 
a said our lordyes saw — saw — sawter by rote " ; and her gossip *' Tib, who 
has tongue inough for both " ; Alison, who knows ** what a great thinge an oth 
is " ; and Sir John, the priest, who knows how to use one, — these, their ways 
and colloquies, are of a piece with Stevenson's work and Hey wood's and the 
world that their work represents. The conditions and conduct of the leading 
dramatis persouie are, on the other hand, more closelv akin to the Plautine 
and Terentran, to the school of Udall and the humanists. Cacurgus, the 
domestic parasite and fool, remotely connected with the Vice, but actually a 
counterfeit-simple and wag, is as good a Will Summer as the early comedy 
can boast. When Greene made his Nano, Adam, and Slipper, he had in mind 
a generation of such creatures. If one could eliminate the sermonizing, there 
would remain a plot as satisfactory in unity, in situations, recognitions, crises, 
and denouement as any produced during the next twenty years. But, as I 
have said above, the moral urgency of the play injures the art. Since the 
Prodigal Son is reclaimed, we are, however, justified in ranking the produc- 
tion among early attempts at English comedy. 

Godly Queen Hester^ published 1561,^ is exactly described as a " newe 

1 Herford, Lit. Rel.^ p. 156. 

2 Unique original, pub. by Pickerynge and Hacket, 1561, in Duke of Devonshire's Libr,, 
Chatswortli j repr. by Grosart, Fuller fVorthies Libr.^ vol. IV., Miscellanies^ 1873. 



of English Comedy Ixxxiii 

enterlude drawen out of the Holy Scripture.'* According to Fleay, it is the 
latest ** scriptural morality " extant to be acted on the English stage. ^ But it 
is much more than a scriptural morality. Not only by its fusion of biblical 
characters, like Assuerus and Hester, with allegorical types, like Pride and the 
half-moral, half-native Vice, does the play give evidence of its polytypic 
nature, but by its atmosphere, which is charged with local and personal allu- 
sions and ironical references to the economic abuses of the day. In nervous 
energy of style and in forthright dramatic movement, the play is an improve- 
ment upon its predecessors ; and as a satirical drama of political purpose, 
it should have had a numerous progeny. Strange to say, however, this kind 
of scriptural satire has had no great success in the field of Enghsh drama. Its 
bloom, as in Dry den's Absalom and Achitophel, has been in the by-paths of 
poetry. Of a peculiar historical importance is the character of Hardy-dardy. 
Mr. Fleay regards him as a domestic fool, and remarks that this interlude 
and the Misogonus are the only two early plays in which the Vice is replaced 
by such a personage. But neither of these statements is correct, for Hardy- 
dardy and Cacurgus do not totally abandon the quality of Vice, and various 
other plays yet to be mentioned have characters closely resembling them. 
Hardy-dardy is, indeed, a professed jester dressed in a fool's coat ; in his 
assumption of stupidity and his proffer of service to Aman, he resembles 
Shpper in Greene's James the Fourth ; and in his shrewd simplicity, repartee, 
and indirection he anticipates some of Shakespeare's fools. But he still retains 
characteristics of his ancestry. He stands, in conception, half-way between 
the minor Vices of the play. Ambition, Adulation, and Pride, to whose 
jocosities and deviltries he succeeds, — for he appears only when they have 
departed, — and the waggish weathercocks of later interludes. Haphazard and 
Conditions. 

I wish I could have included among the reprints of the present volume 
both of the plays next to be mentioned, but Hmitations of space and other 
reasons have forbidden. When Puttenham said that for comedy and interlude 
such doings as he had ** sene of Maister Edwardes deserved the hyest price," 
and Turberville, that **for poet's pen and passing witte," that poet «* could 
have no English Peere," I think that they were not greatly exaggeratmg. 
Richard Edwardes' Damon and Pithias, written before 1566, maybe as early 
as 1563—65, takes steps significant in literary history. It is not only entirely 
free from allegorical elements, and almost from didactic, but it is rich in quali- 
ties of the fusion drama. The subject of a classical story is handled in a 
genuinely romantic fashion, although no previous drama of romantic friend- 

1 As Hester and Ahasuerus, 1594. I see no reason for attributing the authorship, with 
Mr. Fleay, to R. Edwardes, 



Ixxxiv An Historical View 

ship had existed in England. Comic and serious strains flow side by side, 
occasionally mingling. A quick satire, dramatic and personal, pervades the 
play. The names and scenes may be Syracusan, and types from Latin comedy 
may walk the streets, but the life is of the higher and lower classes of 
England ; and the creatures of literary tradition are elbowed and jostled by 
children of the soil. The farcical episodes may be indelicate, but they have 
the virility of fact. The plot as a whole is skilfully conducted ; while it 
proceeds directly to the goal, it encompasses a wider variety of ethical inter- 
ests, dramatic motives, and attractions, than that of any previous play. The 
relation to an interlude of which we shall presently speak. Like wil to Likcy 
is beyond doubt. In both a crude psychological pairing and contrasting of 
characters may be observed ; but in the development of the characters, 
Damon and Pithias is decidedly superior. The author calls this ** a matter 
mixt with myrth and care ... a tragical comedie " ; but while he thus 
aims at a fusion of the ideal with the commonplace, he makes a close approxi- 
mation, always, to probability of incident and character, and so observes the 
criterion which he himself enunciates : — 

* • In commedies the greatest skyll is this, lightly to touch 
All thynges to the quicke ; and eke to frame each person so 
That by his common talke, you may his nature rightly know." 

In its defects, such as the disregard of time and place, as in its merits, the 
Damon and Pithias is a commendable experiment in romantic comedy — 
a contribution worthy of more attention than historians have ordinarily ac- 
corded it. Undoubtedly Edwardes' **mucli admired play" of Palamon 
and Arcite, which the queen witnessed in hall at Christ Church, Oxfoi-d, 
1566 (and laughed heartily thereat, and thanked *<the author for his 
pains"), was of the fashion and vogue of the drama which we have dis- 
cussed, though it had not the abiding influence. 

If it were not for the fact that The Supposes (acted 1566) is a translation 
of Ariosto's play of the same title, I should be inclined to say that it was the 
first English comedy in every way worthy of the name. It certainly is, for 
many reasons, entitled to be called the first comedy in the English tongue. It 
is written, not for children, nor to educate, but for grown-ups and solely to de- 
light. It is done into English, not for the vulgar, but for the more advanced 
taste of the translator's own Inn of Court ; it has, therefore, qualities to capti- 
vate those who are capable of appreciating high comedy. It is composed, like 
its original, in straightforward, sparkling prose. It has, also, the rarest features 
of the fusion drama : it combines character and situation, each depending upon 
the other ; it combines wit of intellect with humour of heart and fact, intri- 



of English Comedy Ixxxv 

cate and varied plot with motive and steady movement, comic but not 
farcical incident and language with complications surprising, serious, and 
only not hopelessly embarrassing. It conducts a romantic intrigue in a real- 
istic fashion through a world of actualities. With the blood of the New 
Comedy, the Latin Comedy, the Renaissance in its veins, it is far ahead of 
its English contemporaries, if not of its time. Without historical apology or 
artistic concessions it would act well to-day. Both whimsical and grave, its 
ironies are pro bono publico ; it is constructive as well as critical, imaginative 
as well as actual. Indeed, when one compares Gascoigne's work with the 
original and observes the just hberties that he has taken, the Englishing of 
sentiment as well as of phrase, one is tempted to say, with Tom Nashe, that 
in comedy, as in other fields, this writer first **beat a path to that perfection 
which our best poets have aspired to since his departure." He did not con- 
trive the plot ; but no dramatist before him had selected for his audience, 
translated, and adapted a play so amusing and varied in interest, so graceful, 
simple, and idiomatic in its style. It was said by R. T., in 1615, that Gas- 
coigne was one of those who first *' brake the ice for our quainter poets who 
now write, that they may more safely swim through the main ocean of sweet 
poesy " — a remark which would lose much of its force if restricted to the 
poet's achievements in satire alone ; in the drama of the humanists he excelled his 
contemporaries, and in the romantic comedy of intrigue he anticipated those 
who/ Hke Greene and Shakespeare,^ adapted the Italian plot to English man- 
ners and the English taste. Nor are these the only claims of Gascoigne to 
consideration : The Supposes y as Professor Herford has justly remarked, is the 
most Jonsonian of English comedies before Jonson. 



12. Survivals of the Moral Interlude 

Though we must refrain from description, we cannot forbear mention of 
a few survivals of the moral interlude, which, though themselves rudimentary, 
were not without esteem even in an age when the drama, by combination and 
adaptation of its possibilities, was producing other results infinitely superior to 
the older strain. These functionless survivals of the moral were the following, 
all controversial : Newe Custome, an anti-papist play, perhaps written as early 
as 1550-53 ; Jlbyon Knight, a political fragment acted between 1560 and 
1565 ; Kyng Daryus, a peculiarly insipid disputation, evidently anti-papist, 
printed in 1565 ; and The Confiict of Conscience , a doctrinal drama by Na- 
thaniel Woodes, Minister in Norwich, which presents a mixture of individual 

1 The relation of The Taming of the Shrew to this play is well known. 



Ixxxvi An Historical View 

and even historical characters with abstractions, stands midway between the 
allegorical interlude and the drama of concrete experience, displays a com- 
mendable realism in spots, and is a more virile production than the others of 
this group. It was not published till 1581, but was probably written soon 
after 1563. 

Of the decadent stock of morals and interludes, there were, however, 
some specimens between the years 1553 and 1578 that exhibited an advance 
in quality, if not in kind. Three of these, The Longer thou Livesty All for 
Money, and Tide Taryeth no Man, Mr. Fleay ^ lumps together as simple in- 
stances of the survival of the older * morality ' after the introduction of tragedy 
and comedy on the models of Seneca and Plautus, and makes the further 
statement that none of them teaches us anything as to the historical develop- 
ment of the drama in England. With the utmost respect for the knowledge 
of this most helpful historian, I must say that, as a matter of judgment, none 
of these dramas, least of all. Longer thou Lwest, should be classed with the 
moral plays of mere survival. While the authors of these and similar speci- 
mens did not produce a new kind, they did more than repeat the old. They 
revived and enriched the moral interlude by infusion of new strains, and so 
produced, by culture, a most interesting group of what may be called varia- 
tions of the moral. To this class of morals belong also the Triall of Treasure, 
Like wil to Like, and the Life and Repentaunce of Marie Magdalene. It must 
be said also that a few moral tragedies of the period, like R. B.'s Apiui and 
Virginia (about 1563, pr. 1575), and Preston's King Cambises (S. R. 
1569-70), have some claim to belong to this group, and that if there were 
space they should receive attention for their vital dramatic quality and their 
development of the character of the Vice. The Hap-hazard of the former, 
far from being, as Dr. Ward has said, ** redundant to the action," suggests 
the '* conspiracies " which Apius adopts, and is the heart of rascaUty and fun ; 
he is consequently a Vice of the old type ; but he is also the representative 
(in accordance with his name and express profession) of the caprice of the 
individual and the irony of fortune. He is the Vice, efficient for evil, but in 
process of evolution into the inclination or humour of a somewhat later 
period of dramatic history : the inchnation not immoral but unmoral, the 
artistic impersonation of comic extravagance, in accordance with which Every 
Man is in his Vice, and every Vice is but a Humour. The Ambidexter 
of the latter tragedy plays ** with both hands finely" in the main action, 
and at the same time serves to provoke the jocosity of those admirably con- 
crete ruffians, Huf, Ruf, and Snuf, and of the clown of the play. The 
HoresteSy written by John Pikerynge in 1567, must, although a tragedy, also 

1 Hist. St., r>. 66. 



of English Comedy Ixxxvii 

be mentioned here.^ The Vice under his dual designation of Corage and 
Revenge is of the weathervane variety ; and in realistic and humorous quali- 
ties the play closely resembles the preceding two. They were a noble but 
futile effort to bottle the juices of tragedy, classical-historical at that, in the 
leathers of moral interlude. 



13. The Movement towards Romantic Comedy 

We may now proceed with the main current of comedy. Between i 570 
and I 590 the best plays are coloured by a distinctively romantic element ; and 
this is noticeable, not only in the productions of the greater authors, Lyly, 
Peele, Greene, and the like, elsewhere discussed in this volume, but in 
those of minor writers too frequently ignored. As I have already said, 
the romantic in life appears to spring from a desire to assert one's inde- 
pendence and realize the possibilities o'i the resulting freedom. " Our pent 
wills fret And would the world subdue." But since the conditions of life 
are largely opposed to the complete fulfilment of our desires, it is the privilege 
and function of romance, and of romantic comedy according to its kind, to 
idealize the stubborn facts — the ** hmits we did not set" in favour of our 
ecstatic but still human urgency. This privilege the comedy of romance 
exercises sometimes with an eye to nature and probability, and sometimes 
with some respect for imaginative possibility, but quite frequently with no 
other guide than mere caprice. The subjects of such comedy may be briefly 
summarized as passion, heroism, and wonder. Of these the first is manifest 
in examples of ideal friendship, its devotion and self-sacrifice ; and a play of 
such nature we have already considered in the Damon and Pithias. It also 
yields the furnishings of love, the resulting obstacles, and the issue ; and a 
play of this kind we have considered in The Supposes, which is a domestic 
comedy of intrigue. Of heroism the possibilities are suggested , by the words 
travel, adventure, chivalry, war, conquest ; those of wonder are as various 
as the chances of birth, wealth and fortune, pomp and power, myth and 
fable : they are fostered by that which is remote, preternatural, supernatural. 

To the romance of wonder, saints' plays, legends, and bibhcal stories had 
purveyed from early times. From 1570 on the narrative of chivalry and ad- 
venture, of which shadowy lineaments had already appeared in one or two 
miracle plays and in the interludes of Wit and Science, began to gather to 
itself kindred elements of romantic interest, and to occupy the stage with 
such plays as Common Conditions, written perhaps between 1572 and' 1576, 

1 Brit. Mus. c. 34, g; Collier's Illustr. 0, Engl. Lit., II. 2 5 Brandl's Snellen. 



Ixxxviii An Historical View 

and Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes, written perhaps as early, — dramas of love, 
fable, and adventure, absolutely free from didactic purpose. At the same 
time still another variety of romantic comedy, unhampered by the trammels 
of instructive intent, but dealing essentially in domestic intrigue, kept alive the 
method of The Supposes. This variety was represented by The Bugbears y 
between 1561 and 1584, and The Two Italia?i Gentlemen (S. R. 1584), 
which, based upon Italian models, availed themselves on the one hand of a 
burlesque parody of the magical, and on the other of genuine English mirth. 
The latter indeed added something of the * humours ' element soon to be 
exploited by Porter, Chapman, and Jonson. Beside these dramas, there 
sprang into notice a certain half-moral, half-romantic kind of play which, 
availing itself of the mould of the interlude, fused therein the materials of the 
chivalrous, the magical, and the passionate, and produced certain anomalous 
comedies of great popularity between the year 1580 and the end of the 
century. The best of these ** pleasant and stately morals" are : The Rare 
Triumphs of Love and Fortune , The Three Ladies of London, The Three 
Lordes and Three Ladies of London. 

While Collier thinks that, in point of positive dramatic interest, the Rare 
Triumphs of Love and Fortune requires but brief notice. Dr. Ward holds that 
the beginnings of romantic comedy were foreshadowed by the play.^ It is, 
in fact, both dramatically and historically, one of the most important produc- 
tions of its date. It was printed in 1589, but played, perhaps, as early as 
1582. Mr. Fleay has assigned it to Kyd, but I do not see sufficient reason 
for the attribution ; if we must find an author for it, Robert Wilson's claims 
might be urged. The Rare T'riumphs affbrds an excellent instance of the 
fusion of moral and romance. In the Induction, Love and Fortune dispute 
concerning their respective influence in the affairs of mankind. By mutual 
agreement the debat seeks its solution in a practical demonstration of the 
issues involved. And so we find our intellectual as well as emotional inter- 
est enlisted in the chances of an Italian story of love, adventure, and magic. 
Within a moral interlude of classical and mythological origin we discover a 
romantic comedy. The influence of the supernatural not merely envelops, 
but permeates the whole ; the Acts present the destinies of the mortals of the 
inner play, the inter-acts the continued intervention of the immortals of the 
outer. The spectacular effect is, moreover, heightened by the introduction of 
dumb shows, after the fashion of the masque. In dramatic interest proper 
few romantic fables of 1582 can compare with the inner story : the love of 
Hermione for Fidelia, the duel between Hermione and Fidelia's brother, the 
exile of the lover and his retirement to the cave of his unknown father, the 
1 Collier, E. Dram Po., II. 432; and Ward, Hist. E. Dr. Lit., I. 264. 



of English Comedy Ixxxix 

hermit Bomelio ; Bomelio's attempt to right matters by magic, the destruction 
of his necromantic books, his madness, his recovery, and the resolution of 
difficulties through the instrumentality of the heroine. Such a fable is any- 
thing but silly and meagre, as Colher would have it, especially when we 
consider its conjunction with the humorous and vivid. In the outer play the 
clown is Vulcan, at whose call Jupiter mediates, **Hke an honest man in 
the parish," between the disputatious goddesses. In the inner play Penulo 
the parasite and Lentulo the clown, though neither of them a Vice, supply the 
comic delectations of the role. The disguise of Bomelio as physician, his 
dialect, his misfortune and raving, are excellently contrived and conducted. 
In at least half a dozen particulars one may detect aesthetic possibiHties later to 
be matured in more than one Shakespearian play : foreshadowings of plot and 
principal actors, as in The Tempest ; foreshadowings of minor characters like 
Dr. Caius, or like the Francis of i Henry IF. The play is, in brief, refresh- 
ing ; the humour, substantial and English ; the language, conversational, dra- 
matic, sometimes in prose and then excellent. The versification, however, 
is of that stiffer quality which warrants Mr. Fleay's conjecture of 1582, or 
thereabout, as the date of composition. 

The attempt to enliven the **old moral" by an infusion of passion and 
intrigue, and to parade it in the trappings of romance, across the background of 
contemporary English life and manners, is what distinguishes Robert Wilson's 
** right excellent and famous Comcedy called the Three Ladies of London y^^ 
printed 1584, and its sequel. The Pleasant and Stately Morall of the Three 
Lordes and Three Ladies of London y registered in 1588. Of these plays, 
the latter trades in pomp and chivalry ; the earher in something like the 
motives of romantic interest. **The acuteness and political subtlety evinced 
in several of the scenes of the Three Ladies ^^ have been justly commended by 
Collier, who points with careful attention also to ** the severity of the author's 
satirical touch, his amusing illustrations of manners, his exposure of the tricks 
oi foreign merchants, and the humour and drollery which he has thrown 
into his principal comic personage." This is Simphcity, the fool or clown, 
droll, indifferent, honest, and by no means so simple as he appears : a 
descendant of the historical Will Summer, a forerunner of the Dogberrys and 
Malaprops, and the elder brother of an Honesty of another play, J Knack to 
Know a Knave, in which the same author probably had a hand. Standing 
over against three belated specimens of the Vice, Simphcity unites the shrewd- 
ness, manners, and humour of that personage — but in superior quality — with 
the prudence, the penetration, and the conception of honour pecuhar to the 
professional jester. He also plays a vital part in the main action, and is worthy 
to be regarded as one of the best clowns, if not the best, in the history of the 



xc An Historical View 

moral interlude. His forthright utterances in the Three Ladies and his easy 
and witty prose in the sequel mark him for a model likely to have influenced 
the younger dramatists of the day. The minor plot-interest of the honest 
Jew, Gerontus, the rascally Christian, Mercatore, and the Judge, is signifi- 
cant, not only as the reverse of the conception dramatized in the Jew of 
Malta and the Merchant of Venicey but as, with one exception, the earliest 
elaboration of the motif that was to become prominent in the drama of the 
next few years. Qualities romantic and real invest the career of the three 
Ladies ; and the characterization of the numerous minor personages is both 
subtle and suitable to their different classes and interests. 

Although the Three hordes a?id Ladies y one of the earliest sequels in the 
history of English drama, is **more of a moral" than its predecessor and 
makes no improvement in plot-structure, it is of importance fully equal. • For 
what it lacks in passion and romance is more than counterbalanced by tech- 
nical qualities — the blank verse, the fluent prose, the wit of Simphcity and 
the pages, the scenic display, the variety of incidents, and the portrayal of 
manners. If w^e consider the definite transition from abstractions to social 
and individual traits of character in this play and the preceding, — the multi- 
fold impersonation of worldly wisdom, fraud, and shoddy, one might say 
the resolution of the role of Vice into its component specialties ; the corre- 
sponding offset of all these by ensamples of virtuous living, but still human ; 
and the attendant troupe of more obvious 'humours,' Simplicity and the 
pages. Painful Penury, Diligence, and the rest, — it will be evident that 
these plays of Robert Wilson are the merging of moral interlude in romantic 
and social comedy. On this account I cannot agree with Dr. Ward,^ who 
says that in construction and conception they mark no advance w^hatever upon 
the older moralities. I think they mark a significant advance. In them the 
moral has arrived at a consciousness of the demands of art ; and, attempting 
to fulfil its possibilities, it acquires body, spirit, and bouquet y even though, 
in the moment of fermentation, it bursts the bottle. Still we must re- 
member that we have now reached a date, 1588—90, by which much of 
the best work of Lyly, Marlowe, Peele, and Greene had already been pro- 
duced, and we must, therefore, not attribute to Wilson an importance greater 
than that of an industrious and inventive contemporary, hospitable to ideas, 
but essentially conservative in practice. He is at once ** father of interludes," 
as interludes then were regarded, and an intermediary between the interlude 
of moral abstractions and the comedy of humours. He appears, also, to have 
played so lively a part in the dramatic history of his day that Mr. Fleay is 
justified in calling this period by his name ; and, therefore, a few further 

1 Hht. E. Dr. Lit.y I. 141. 



of English Comedy xci 

words concerning him and other plays which he seems to have written 
might well be said here, but we must reserve them for another occasion. 

14. Conclusion 

With but one or two exceptions the plays which we have so far passed in 
review fail in some respect or other of the plot that makes a comedy. A plot 
that is argumentative, that is a ratiocination or exemplum conducted by ab- 
stractions, is not sufficient to constitute comedy, though it may contribute to 
its development a unity of interest, a spiritual sequence ; nor are sporadic 
situations and incidents sufficient, though humorously conceived and exe- 
cuted ; nor glimpses of types, characters or manners, nor hints of passion, nor 
satiric speeches and dialogues, though artistically dramatized, true, appro- 
priate, and witty. None of these constitutes comedy. Comedy demands 
action vitalized by a plot that is capable of revealing the social significance of 
the individual : an action of sufficient scope and reality to display the spirit of 
society in individual types and manners, or in character and sentiment ; a 
plot sufficiently urgent to interest us, not only in the phenomena, in the con- 
comitants, of every deed, but in its motive and inherent passion. The comedy 
of external life may present, by means of typical individuals and conventional 
manners, a reflex of that which is actual, or a criticism of it ; and such a 
play will be realistic or satirical. The comedy of the inner life, on the 
other hand, since it reveals the characteristics of humanity in the heat and 
moment of passion, may present a vision of the ideal made concrete ; it is 
therefore at once interpretative, constructive, and romantic. These two kinds 
of comedy are alike in that they display the triumph of freedom when 
regulated by common sense, the adjustment of the individual to society. But 
as they vary in function and result, so these kinds of comedy differ in the 
quality of action which each may present. The play of convention and man- 
ners can use only the externals of action, actions that neither strike deep nor 
spring from the depths, for such a play aims to reproduce appearances or 
merely to re-create them — to criticise and correct rather than construct. 
The play of character and passion, not the so-called realistic, but idealistic, 
selects for presentation actions whose springs are in the inner life ; and that is 
because it would present men and women as they should be, — individuals 
widening the social, pressing toward the ideal, not by overstepping that 
which is conventional, but by informing it with new meaning and pushing 
back its limits. Comedy, therefore, is in the plot, and the plot must pro- 
ceed from the wisdom essential to a comic view of Ufe : acceptance of the 
social environment as it appears to be, because one believes in society as it 



xcii Historical View of English Comedy 

should be. The dramatist, his plot and his characters, are the exponents of 
common sense and freedom, of the light of life as it is with the sweetness of 
life as it mav be. Common sense, however, may become prosaic, or liberty- 
licentious ; and it is in preventing such extremes that wit and humour per- 
form their function. Neither of these can alone make a comedy, but one of 
them may sometimes save it. Both should certainly characterize it. But for 
the former, the drama of appearances might be caricature, abuse, horse-play, 
or homily ; but for the latter, romantic comedy would be bathos. No 
amount of wit, however, could save a play that did not possess a significant 
sequence of material and event. Though the booths of Bartholomew Fair 
agitate the diaphragm, they do not constitute comedy. Without plot the 
lunges of wit lack point ; and as for the plotless play of passion, it ends in 
Bedlam, whence all the humour in the world cannot redeem it. 

It was a step forward when allegory made way for concrete characters 
and manners, and the motives born of social intercourse ; a further step when 
the dramatist ceased instructing and sought to amuse. But the final step 
imphed the still rarer ability to create something integral and critical in one, 
something that should act what life means, and so unconsciously demonstrate 
that it is purposive, and more hopeful and amusing than we thought. Natu- 
rally enough, our earlier comic plots, when they were escaping from the sym- 
bohc, lacked sometimes in significance, and sometimes in sequence. The 
fables of Roister Doister and Gammer Gurton mark an advance in techni- 
cal construction ; but they do not escape the farcical, for their subjects are 
trivial. There were likewise many experiments to be made in the materials of 
intrigue and passion before Damon and Pithias and J'he Supposes could fulfil, 
even in part, the requirements of significant romance. And when, at last, 
the play with a plot had come to its own, it was long before it attained 
wisdom to suffuse the appearances of life with their illuminating characteristic, 
and imagination to colour the course of characteristic events. 



I 



yohn Heywood 



I 



THE PLAY OF THE WETHER 

and 



A MERY PLAY BETWENE 
f JOHAN JOHAN, THE HUSBANDE, 

TYB, HIS WIFE, i£c. 



Edited with Critical Essay and Notes 
by Alfred W. Pollard, M,A,, 
St. John' s College i Oxford 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

Life. — The first authentic record of John Heywood is one of 6 January, 
I 51 5, in Henry VIII. 's Book of Payments, which shows him to have then 
been one of the King's singing men, in receipt of a daily wage of eightpence. 
According to Bale, who must have known him, he was " civis Londinensis," 
the story that he was born at North Mimms, Hertfordshire, having apparently 
arisen from his possession of land in that neighbourhood. Tradition has 
sent him to Broadgates Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford, and there is 
nothing improbable in this. In February, i 521, Heywood was granted by the 
King an annuity of ten marks, and in i 5 26, a quarterly payment of the same 
sum was made him as a ** player of the virginals." He appears to have been 
specially attached to the retinue of the Princess Mary, a payment being made 
in January, 1537, to his servant for bringing her *'regalles" (or hand-organ) 
from London to Greenwich, and Heywood himself in March, 1538, receiv- 
ing forty shillings for **pleying an interlude with his children" before her. 
At Mary's coronation Heywood made her a Latin speech in St. Paul's 
Churchyard, and in November, 1558, the Queen granted him some leases in 
Yorkshire. On the accession of Elizabeth, Heywood, though he had steered 
through the reign of Edward VI. with safety, fled to Malines, and Professor 
Ward (in the Dictionary of Natio?iai Biography) identifies him with the John 
Heywood who in 1575 wrote from Malines, '* where I have been despoiled 
by Spanish and German soldier," thanking Burghley for ordering the pay- 
ment to him of some arrears on lands at Romney, and speaking of himself as 
an old man of seventy-eight, which would give 1497 as his birth-year. He 
is mentioned in a list of refugees in 1577, but by i 587 is spoken of as ** dead 
and gone." Earlier biographers, it should be noted, following Anthony a 
Wood, have placed his death in 1565. Besides his plays Heywood wrote 
a Dialogue Conteym?tg the Number of the Effectuall Prouerbes in the E?ig- 
iishe Tongey Six Hundred Epigrams, and a tedious allegory The Spider and 
the Flie, printed, with a woodcut of the author, in 1556. 

Heywood's Place in English Comedy. — The early history of 
English comedy is a record of successive efforts and experiments 
apparently leading to no result. The comic scenes in the miracle 
plays culminate in the really masterly sheep-stealing plot of the 
Secunda Pastorum in the Towneley Cycle , but the step which seems 

3 



John Heywood 



to us so obvious, the separation of the Pastoral Comedy ffom its 
religious surroundings, was never taken, and the Secunda Pastorum 
stands by itself, a solitary masterpiece. In the earlier moralities 
there are flashes of humour as in the miracle plays ; in the later 
moralities we find scenes in which the effort to paint the riotous 
course of Youth, though not very amusing to modern readers, is 
sufficiently faithful to bring us within sight of a possible comedy 
of manners. But the morality-writer was far from entertaining 
any conception of comedy as an end in itself. His aim remained 
to the last purely didactic. It did not, indeed, occur to him, as it 
occurred to didactic writers of a later period, to represent dissipa- 
tion as so unattractive as to make it miraculous that it should 
attract.) He would show it as bitter of digestion, but neither play- 
wright nor audience were concerned to deny that it was pleasant in 
the mouth, and it is improbable that readiness to acquiesce in the 
sober moral of a play diminished in the least the applause with which, 
we may be sure, any approach to gayety in the tavern scenes would 
be attended. After all, though we may sometimes be inclined to 
doubt it, audiences both at miracle plays and moralities were human. 
To the very real strain imposed on their ernotions in the miracle 
plays they needed what seem to us these incongruous interludes 
of humour by way of dramatic relief, and in the moralities it is 
difficult not to believe that the humour supplied the gilding without 
which the didactic pill, at a much earlier date, must have been found 
nauseating. It remains, however, certain that alike in the miracle 
plays, the moralities, and the moral interludes such humour as can be 
found is merely incidental, and this is the justification for assigning 
to John Heywood the honourable position which he occupies in this 
collection of English comedies. . As far as we know, he was the 
first English dramatist to understand that a play might be con- 
structed with no other objects than satire and amusement, and if 
such epithets were not fortunately a little discredited, we might 
dub him on this score the " Father " of English comedy. Pa- 
ternity, however, cannot be predicated without some evidence of 
offspring, and it would be extremely difficult, I think, to show that 
Heywopd exercised sufficient influence on any subsequent dramatist 
to be reckoned as his literary father. The anonymous author of that 



yohn Heywood 



amusing children's play, Thersites^ was indeed a kindred spirit, but 
there is at least a possibility that this play should be credited to Hey- 
wood himself, and on the subsequent development of comedy his 
influence was certainly of the smallest. ) But to have shown that 
comedy was entitled to a separate existence, apart from didactics, 
was no small achievement, and to the credit of this demonstration 
Heywood is entitled. 

In guessing how Heywood came to make this discovery it seems 
not unreasonable to lay some stress on the fact that, according to a 
tradition which there is no reason to doubt, he was a friend of Sir 
Thomas More, while we know that four of his plays were printed 
by William Rastell, the son of More's brother-in-law, John Rastell. 
More's interest in the drama is attested by the story of his stepping, 
on more than one occasion, among the players, when they were per- 
forming before Cardinal Morton, and taking an improvised share in 
the dialogue. In the play of Sir Thomas More^ written towards the 
close of the century, this improvisation is transferred to an interlude 
performed during an entertainment at More's own house, and the 
introduction of this interlude into the piece, and the ready welcome 
which the Chancellor is represented as giving the players, certainly 
argue a tradition of a keen interest in the drama on his part. John 
Rastell, again, has been credited with the authorship of at least one 
of the interludes which he printed, and quite recently some inter- 
esting documents have been discovered, which show him organizing 
a performance for which a wooden stage was erected.Jti his own 
garden at Finsbury, setting Mrs. Rastell to help a tailpr to make 
some very gorgeous dresses, and apparently engaging as players the 
craftsmen (a certain George Birch, currier, ^hd his friends), who 
up to this date were still the customary performers, as distinct from 
a separate class of trained actors. Rastell, at this time, and More, 
throughout his life, held those views as to church-policy to which 
we know that Heywood himself consistently clung.^The attitude of 
firm belief, with an absolute readiness to satirize abuses, which we 
find in Heywood's plays, was exactly characteristic of More, and it 
does not seem fanciful to believe that it was partly to the author of 
the Utopia^ and to the circle of which he was the centre, that Hey- 
wood owed his dramatic development. 



yohn Heywood 



Plays assigned to him : Authorship, Dramatic Development, Literary 
Estimate. — There is the more reason for insisting on Heywood's 
place as one of a little circle, interested in playwriting and play- 
acting, in that the evidence for his authorship of two of the best of 
the six interludes commonly assigned to him is extremely vague. 
It is, indeed, very unfortunate that the six plays divide themselves 
into a group of four and a group of two, and that whereas the four 
plays of the first group are all positively assigned to him in one case 
in a contemporary manuscript, said to be in his own writing, in the 
others in contemporary printed editions, the two plays of the second 
group were both published anonymously, although, like The Play of 
Love and The Play of the Wether^ they were issued by William Ras- 
tell, and appeared within a few months of these plays to which Hey- 
wood's name is duly attached. In the case of publications of our 
own day we should certainly be justified in thinking that the asser- 
tion of his authorship in two cases and the failure to assert it in two 
others were intentional and significant. But in the first half of the 
sixteenth century there was still much carelessness in these matters, 
while the difference is fairly well accounted for by the fact that in 
The Play of Love and Play of the Wether Rastell printed the title and 
dramatis persons on a separate leaf, whereas in The Pardoner and the 
Frere and Johan Johan there is only a head title. However this may 
be, we are bound in the first instance to consider by themselves the 
four plays of which Heywood's authorship is beyond dispute. 

In approaching these four plays we must prepare ourselves to 
judge them relatively to the other work of the very dull period of 
English literature at which they were written. To make this claim 
for them is to admit that they are imperfect, important historically 
rather than absolutely for their own worth; but the admission is 
one which no sane critic can avoid, and it is here made with alacrity. 
What it gains for Heywood is the recognition that two strongly 
marked features of these plays, one of which is now likely to repel, 
and the other to weary, most modern readers, in his own day helped 
to make them amusing. The repellent feature is, of course, that 
humour of filth which, quite as much as his sexual indecencies, 
makes some passages both in the Four PP. and The Play of the 
Wither disgusting even to readers not consciously squeamish. The 



I 



yohn Heywood 



epithet ' beastly ' which Pope applied to Skelton is certainly on this 
score no less appropriate to Heywood, but it needs no wide acquain- 
tance with the popular literature of his day to learn that this wretched 
stuff was found amusing for its own sake. To suppress this fact, 
either by expurgating or by deliberately choosing a less typical play 
for the sake of its accidental decency, would be to falsify evidence, 
and any such falsification would be grossly unjust to Heywood's 
successors. It is only by realizing how low was the conception of 
humour in the sixteenth century that we can explain the existence 
in the plays of Shakespeare himself of passages which would other- 
wise be wholly amazing. 

For the other feature in Heywood's plays which now excites 
more weariness than interest there is no need to apologize ; we 
may even confess that our failure to relish it is due to our own 
weakness. In Heywood's days one of the chief aims of education 
was skill in argument. Men disputed their way to academical 
degrees, and the quickest path to reputation was the successful 
maintenance against all comers of some hazardous proposition. 
Instead of introducing this siege-train of argument into their plays, 
modern dramatists have preferred the lighter weapons of verbal 
pleasantry and repartee which make what is called " pointed dia- 
logue." A request from one of the dramatis personcs to another 
" in this cause to shewe cause reasonable. . . . Hearyng and 
aunswerynge me pacyently " would assuredly empty any theatre of 
our own day. But the audience who listened to it in Heywood's 
Play of Love no doubt settled themselves in their places with an 
anticipation of enjoyment. And we may fairly grant that our 
author is not wholly unsuccessful in vivacious argument. For a 
lady to compare the suit of an unwelcome lover to an invitation 
"to graunte hym my good wyll to stryke of[f] my hed," pleasingly 
illustrates the unreasonableness of too great pertinacity on the part 
of the rejected. The objection " Howe many have ye known 
hang willingly" shatters at a blow the seemingly sound plea that 
as the convict suffers more than his hangman, so the rejected lover 
is more to be pitied than the most tender-hearted lady who finds 
herself obliged to refuse him. The ups and downs of the argument 
are often conducted with ingenuity, and an audience to whom argu- 



8 John Heywood 



ment was amusing for its own sake no doubt applauded every point 
Two of Heywood's plays depend almost entirely on their logical 
attractions, — the interlude, left unprinted till its issue by the Percy 
Society in 1846, to which has been given as title The Dialogue of 
Wit and Folly^ and The Play of Love twice printed by Rastell (1533 
and 1534) and once by Waley. The former is purely argumenta- 
tive, discussing the question as to whether the fool or the sage has 
the pleasanter life. The Play of Love^ on the other hand, may be 
said to have two episodes, the first a monologue of some three hun- 
dred lines in which the Vice, "Neither Loving nor Loved," narrates 
his ill-success in an endeavour to conquer the heart of a lady with- 
out losing his own, the second his appearance with a bucketful of 
squibs and a false story of a fire at the house of the happy lover's 
mistress. The argument in this play is double, " Loving not 
Loved" and "Loved not Loving" contending as to which is the 
more miserable, and " Both Loved and Loving " and " Neither Lov- 
ing nor Loved " as to which is the happier. As each pair appoints 
the other as joint arbitrators, it is perhaps more surprising that any 
conclusion was reached, than that it should be the rather tame one 
that the pains of the first pair and the happiness of the second were 
in each case exactly equal. 

In connection with these two plays we ought perhaps to allude to 
another, very similar in its form, the dialogue of Gentylnes and No- 
bylyte^ of which the authorship has often been attributed to Heywood. 
This play is certainly printed in John Rastell's types, but in place 
of a colophon it has the words " Johannes Rastell fieri fecit," and as 
Rastell would probably have written "imprimi fecit" if he had been 
alluding merely to its printing, we can hardly doubt that the word 
"fieri" refers to performance, if not to composition. With the 
evidence we now have that John Rastell had plays acted in his own 
garden, " fieri fecit " seems exactly translatable by " caused to be 
produced," and as Mrs. Rastell helped the tailor to make the dresses, 
so probably the lawyer-printer helped to write the play. Its two 

1 The full title of this play is rather instructive : — ** Of Gentylnes & Nobylyte : a dyaloge 
betwen the marchaunt, the knyght & the plowman dysputyng who is a verey gentylman & 
who is a noble man and how men shuld come to auctoryte, compiled in maner of an enterlude 
with divers toys & gestis addyd therto to make mery pastyme and disport. ' ' 



1 



yohn Heywood 



parts are each diversified by the Plowman beating Knight and Mer- 
chant (verberat eos is the stage-direction), but otherwise it is all sheer 
argument, which in the end a philosopher is introduced to sum up. 
The tone of the interlude is singularly democratic, the Plowman 
throughout having the best of it, and, despite a natural similarity be- 
tween some of the speeches with those of the " Gentylman " and the 
" Marchaunt " in the Play of the Wether^ there seems no reason for 
connecting with it the name of Heywood, who, for the better part of 
his life, was in the service of the Court. 

In " The playe called the four e PP. : a newe and a very mery enter- 
lude of a palmer, a pardoner, a potycary, a pedler," the advance in 
dramatic form as compared with The Play of Love is very slight, 
though the play is much more vivid and amusing. The Palmer 
begins it with an account of his wanderings, and then the other three 
characters come on the stage, each catching up the words of the last 
speaker, and vaunting his own profession. The argument between 
Palmer, Pardoner, and Pothecary waxes hot, and at last the Pedler 
suggests that as lying is the one matter in which they are all skilled, 
their order of merit can best be determined by a contest in this art, 
and offers himself as the judge. At first the competitors lie vaguely. 
Then it is resolved that the lie must take the form of a tale, and the 
Pothecary tells a long story of the effect of one of his medicines ; 
then the Pardoner a much longer one of a visit to Hell and the 
rescue thence of a shrew of whom Lucifer was very glad to be rid ; 
finally the Palmer in a few words expresses his surprise that there 
should be such shrews in Hell, as in all his travels he never yet knew 
one woman out of patience — a remark which straightway wins him 
the preeminence, though there is more tedious wrangling, before a 
serious little speech from the Pedler brings the play to a close. 
The Four PP. is, to our thinking, insuff*erably spun out; but, except 
in the epilogue, as we may call it, it is plain that its intention was 
solely to amuse — 

To passe the tyme in thys without offence 
Was the cause why the maker dyd make it. 
And so we humbly beseche you take it, 

says the Pedler : — and in substituting stories and a lighter form of 



lo yohn Hey wood 



argument for the more formal disputation of the Dyaloge of Wit and 
Folly and the Play of Love it comes a little nearer to the modern 
conception of comedy, and may be thought to have deserved the 
success which it is said to have achieved. 

The possession by the Play of the Wether of an obvious moral — 
the mess which men would make of rain, wind, and sunshine if they 
had the ruling of them — is undoubtedly a link with the interludes 
of a didactic character, and so may seem at first sight to place it in 
a lower grade of dramatic development. There can be little doubt 
that it was acted by Heywood's company of " children," whom we 
hear of as performing under his direction before the Princess Mary, 
and a children's play would perhaps naturally be cast in this form. 
But the form is here less important than the intention, and it does 
not need Mery-report's comment (" now shall ye have the wether 
— even as yt was") to tell us that Heywood's didactics were purely 
humorous. The point to be noted is that this is really a play — a 
play, moreover, which if it could be shortened and the unforgivable 
passages omitted, might be acted by children of the present day with 
some enjoyment. The part of " the Boy, the least that can play " 
is charming. There is stage furniture in Jupiter's " trone," and in 
the coming and going of the characters at least a semblance of ac- 
tion. We must note, however, the set disputation between the two 
millers, as still linking it with Heywood's other argumentative plays, ■ 
though with all its faults it is the brightest and most pleasing of its I 
class. 

We come now to the two plays. The Pardoner and the Frere and 
Johan Johan^ which modern writers have uniformly assigned to 
Heywood, although William Rastell printed them ^ without any 
author's name, and no one has yet adduced contemporary evidence 
for assigning them to Heywood. In neither of these plays is there 
any trace of the disputation which in those we have been looking at 
is so conspicuous. They are both true comedies, comedies in mini- 
ature if you like, but true comedies, with a definite scene and dra- 
matic action. The Pardoner and the Frere is little more than an 
expansion of hints given by Chaucer, from whom the author does 
not hesitate to borrow two whole passages, but the development of 

1 The Pardoner and the Frere is dated 5 April, 1533 j Joban Johany la February, iSZH' 



I 



yohn Hey wood 1 1 

the little plot is well managed and the climax when the Parson and 
Neighbour Prat are badly worsted and the two rogues go ofF in 
triumph is thoroughly artistic. It has been said that this play must 
have been written during the life of Leo X., who died in 1521, 
because the Pardoner's speech contains the passage (omitting the 
Friar's interruptions) : — 

Worshypfull maysters ye shall understand 

That Pope Leo the X hath graunted with his hand. 

And by his bulls confyrmed under lede. 

To all maner people, bothe quycke and dede. 

Ten thousand yeres & as many lentes of pardon, etc. 

But as Hey wood was probably born in 1497, ^^ ^^ extremely un- 
likely that his undoubted plays were written before 1520, and if the 
evidence of this passage is to be pressed, I should regard it as abso- 
lutely fatal to his authorship, it being inconceivable that any one 
who had written the Pardoner and the Frere could subsequently write 
the Dyaloge ofWyt and Folly or the Play of Love. But there would be 
an obvious convenience in making a dead pope rather than a living 
one answerable for the Pardoner's ribaldries, and the weight of this 
argument is not lessened when we remember that the Pardoner 
proceeds to quote also the authority of the King.^ Although 
no alteration of date would bring the play out of the reign of 
Henry VIIL, we may well believe that that peremptory monarch 
might forgive such reflections on his management of church affairs 
at an earlier date much more readily than satire of a system he was 
then supporting. 

We shall have to speak again of the Pardoner and the Frere and its 
probable date, but we must pass on now to Heywood's masterpiece, 
if we may call it his, the mery play hetwene fohan fohan^ the hus- 
hande^ Tyh his wyfe and Syr Jhan^ the preest. In approaching this 
play, as in approaching Chaucer's tales of the Miller and Reeve 
and some of their fellows, we must, of course, leave our morality 

1 And eke, yf thou dysturbe me anythynge, 
Thou art also a traytour to the Kynge, 
For here hath he graunted me vnder his brode scale 
That no man, yf he love hys hele, 
Sholde me dysturbe or let in any wyse. 



12 



yohn Heywood 



behind and accept the playwright's and tale-teller's convention that 
cuckoldry and cuckoldmaking are natural subjects for humour. This 
granted, it will be difficult to find a flaw in the play. Like the 
Pardoner and the Frere it is short, only about one half the length of 
the plays of Love^ the Wether^ and the Four PP.^ and it gains greatly 
from being less weighted with superfluities. Johan Johan himself, 
with his boasting and cowardice, his eagerness to be deceived, and 
futile attempts to put a good face on the matter, his burning desire 
to partake of the pie, his one moment of self-assertion, to which 
disappointed hunger spurs him, and then his fresh collapse to ludi- 
crous uneasiness, — who can deny that he is a triumph of dramatic 
art, just human enough and natural enough to seem very human 
and natural on the stage, but with the ludicrous side of him so 
sedulously presented to the spectator that there is never any risk of 
compassion for him becoming uncomfortably acute ? The handling 
of Tvb and Syr Jhan is equally clever. Each in turn is prepared 
to act on the defensive, to be evasive and explanatory, but before 
Johan Johan's acquiesciveness such devices seem superfluous, and 
little by little the pair reach a height of effrontery not easily sur- 
passed. One of the incidents of the play, the melting of the wax 
by the fire, occurs also in a contemporary French Farce nouuelle tres- 
honne et fort ioyeuse de Per net qui va au vin^ and it is certainly in the 
French farces that we find the nearest approach in tone and treat- 
ment, as well as in form, to this anonymous Johan Johan. 

Dates. The Authorship of " Thersites." — It may have been noticed 
that in passing these six plays in review the order followed has been 
purely that of their dramatic development. We know that four of 
them were printed in 1533, when Heywood was thirty-six or there- 
abouts, but with the exception of the reference to Leo X. in the Par- 
doner and the Frere^ the significance of which I have given reasons 
for considering doubtful, no one has yet detected any time-reference 
which enables us to fix their approximate dates. ^ In his little 
treatise John Heywood ah Dramatiker (1888) Dr. Swoboda main- 
tains that the Pardoner must be placed earlier than the Four PP.^ and 
that the Four PP. can be shown to be earlier than the anonymous 

1 If the reference in 1. 636 of the Play of the Wether (see note) is to be pressed, this would 
be an exception, giving us between 1523 and 1533 as the date of composition. 



yohn Hey wood 1 3 

play of Thersites^ which we know from its epilogue was acted at 
Court between October 12 and 24, 1537, the dates respectively 
of the birth of Edward VI. and the death of his mother, Jane Sey- 
mour.^ In support of his first point he cites the fact that some of 
the relics (" the grete toe of the Trinite " and " of all Hallows the 
blessed jawbone ") vaunted by the Pardoner in his sermon in the 
church appear again in the longer list of relics in the Four PP. 
In support of the second he quotes from Thersites the lines ^ in which 
that hero proposes to visit Purgatory and Hell, and traces in them 
an allusion to the Pardoner's story in the Four PP. I cannot 
accept either of these arguments as decisive chronologically, it 
being quite as reasonable for a dramatist to abridge a list of relics 
as to expand it, while the boast of Thersites might be represented 
as the hint out of which the rescue of Mistress Margery Coorson 
was developed no less plausibly than as a reference to that notorious 
lie. The Pardoner and the Frere seems to me dramatically more 
advanced than the Four PP.., and I am therefore slow to accept any 
argument which would place it earlier; but even when we allow 
for the fact that Chaucer had fixed for all time the humorous treat- 
ment of Pardoners, the fact that the Pardoners in these two plays 
are so closely alike is an argument of some weight for their common 
authorship.3 But if this be so, the reference to sweeping Hell 

1 Dr. Swoboda erroneously places Edward VI .'s birth in August, a slip of some importance 
as to some extent spoiling his argument that Thersites must have been written for a performance 
at an earlier date. But perhaps even in October it would not be quite correct to say "All herbs 
are dead," while the reference to a New Year's gift, though not quite decisive, makes it proba- 
ble that the play was written for a Christmas entertainment. In any case it is intrinsically prob- 
able that a play acted at an improvised festivity on the birth of an heir to the throne would be 
an old one, rather than specially written for the occasion. 

2 If no man will with me battle take, 
A voyage to hell quickly I will make, 
And there I will beat the devil and his dame. 
And bring the souls away : I fully intend the same. 
After that in Hell I have ruffled so, 
Straight to old Purgatory will I go, 
I will clean that so purge round about 
That we shall need no pardons to help them out. 

8 Dr. Swoboda, who speaks of the plays from the press of William Rastell as printed by his 
father (John), was appa; :ntly unaware that neither The Pardoner and the Frere nor Johan 
Johan bears Hey wood's name, and takes his authorship of them for granted. 



14 yohn Hey wood 

clean in Thersites may set us wondering whether it was not the 
author of the Four PP. who was most likely to have written it ; 
and we may note also the repetition in Thersites of the absurd 
boasting with which Johan Johan preludes his disclosure of hi§ 
cowardice, while the incident of Telemachus belongs to that 
" humour of filth " which I have already noted as characteristic 
of Heywood. For the probability of the latter's authorship of 
Thersites we may claim also a little external support. We have 
already noticed that in March, 1538, Heywood received forty shil- 
lings for the performance by his " children " of an interlude before 
the Princess Mary. Now Thersites is obviously intended for perform- 
ance by children ; it was acted a few months previously to the pay- 
ment of March, 1538,^ in honour of Jane Seymour, to whom Mary, 
in return for her abundant kindness, was greatly attached; and again 
Mary's fondness for the classics would explain the selection of a 
classical burlesque if, as is probable, she was present when it was 
acted. Given the facts that Heywood had already in the Play of 
the Wether brought Jupiter on the stage, that Thersites bears at 
least some slight resemblances to other plays attributed to him, 
that he was in the service of the Princess Mary, and was manager, 
whether permanently or temporarily, about this time, of a company 
of children, and I think we have a fairly strong case for attributing 
Thersites to his pen. If this theory be accepted, the probability of 
his authorship of both the Pardoner and the Frere and Johan Johan 
is considerably increased ; for if Thersites is by Heywood, it is good 
enough to form an important link between these plays and his argu- 
mentative interludes, while if Thersites be not by Heywood, there 
was then some other playwright of the day for whom a strong claim 
might be put forward to the authorship of these other anonymous 
plays. 

Sources. — The fact that an opportunity for writing about Hey- 
wood is not likely to recur very often must be offered as an excuse 
for interpolating questions of detail into this preface. For the 
broader view of the subject which we ought here to take it is obvious 
that the authorship of this or that play is not very important. What 

1 It Is not contended that the payment was for the performance of Thersites^ only that it 
shows that Heywood was a likely man to be called on to produce a play about this period. 



yohn Hey wood 15 



concerns us here is that we can see even in the less developed group 
of plays English comedy emancipating itself from the miracle-play 
and morality, and in the Pardoner and the Frere and Johan Johan 
becoming identical in form with the French fifteenth-century farce. 
Whether we ought to go beyond this and assert absolute borrowing 
from French originals is rather a difficult question. The Farce 
nouuelle d'un Pardonneur^ d'un triacleur et d'une tauerniere may cer- 
tainly have supplied the idea both of the preaching-match between 
Pardoner and Friar and also of the comparison of the wares of Par- 
doner and Pothecary. The Farce nouuelle tresbonne et fort loyeuse de 
Pernet qui va au vin contains two passages ^ which must have some 
direct connection with Johan Johan. The only extant edition of 
Pernet qui va au vin was " nouvellement imprime " in 1548, and 
the date of its prototype is unknown. The Farce d'un Pardonneur^ 
in the edition which has come down to us, is certainly later than 
1540, but this also was probably a reprint. Thus despite the fact 

1 See notes to 11. 263 and 482. I quote here the end of the French farce in order to give 
the " wax " episode in full. 

Le Cousin. Or ca cousin iay pense 
Dung subtil affaire, 
Dont vous serez riche a iamas. 
Pernet. Riche, cousin ? 
Le Cousin. Cartes, sire, voiis fault chauffer 
Et faire ung subtil ouuraige, 
gui vous gardera de dommaige, 
Cousin, beau sire. 
Pernet. Me fault il done chauffer la cire, 
Tandis que vous banqueterez ? 
Corbieu, ien suis marry, 
Te croy que ce paste est bon. 
Le Cousin. Chauffez & mettez du charbon 

Lymaige sera proffittable. 
Pernet. Vous irayge signer la table ? 

Je scay bien le benedicite. 
Le Cousin. Faictes ce que iay recite. 

Dea ! cousin ! ne perdez point de temps. 
Pernet, Cest vng trespouure passetemps 
. De chauffer la cire quant on digne ! 
Regardez elle est plus molle que laine, 
En la chauffant rien naqueste. 
Le Cousin. Conclus & conqueste ! 
Auec la femme ie banqueste, 
Combien que ie ne soye le sire 
Et son mary chauffe la cire. 



1 6 yohn Hey wood 

that the handling of the incidents in the English plays is far more 
skilful than in the French, it would seem too during to suggest that 
the French farces can be borrowed from the English, and in any 
case we may imagine that the English dramatist did not make his 
new departure unaided, but was consciously working on the lines 
which had long been popular in France. By doing so he did not 
lay the foundation of English comedy, for it was not on these lines 
that our comedy subsequently developed. But it was at least a hope- 
ful omen for the future that an English playwright so easily attained 
a real mastery in the only school of comedy with which he could 
have been acquainted. It was something also that the right of 
comedy to exist as a source of amusement apart from instruction 
had been successfully vindicated. These were two real achieve- 
ments, and they must always be connected with the name of John 
Heywood. 

" Play of the Wether " : Early Editions and the Present Text. — At 
the time I write, the Play of the Wether has not been reprinted since 
the sixteenth century. Its bibliography has been rather confused 
by the existence of two texts of it, one at St. John's College, Oxford, 
the other at the University Library, Cambridge, each wanting the last 
leaf, containing in the one case twenty, and in the other sixteen, lines 
of the text and the colophon with the printer's name. The only per- 
fect copy hitherto generally known is that preserved at the Bodleian 
Library, which belongs to an edition " Imprinted at London in Paules 
Churchyearde, at the Sygne of the Sunne, by Anthonie Kytson " 
whose career as a publisher seems to have been comprised within the 
years 1549 and 1579. Of this as the only complete edition I then 
knew I made my first transcript, though subsequent collation showed 
that the imperfect edition at St. John's College contained many better 
readings and an earlier spelling, while the copy at the University 
Library, Cambridge (sometimes, though I think erroneously, attrib- 
uted to the press of Robert Wyer), belonged to an intermediate 
edition. The registration by the Bibliographical Society in its Hand- 
lists of English Printers^ 1 501-1556, of the copy of an edition of 1533, 
printed by William Rastell, in the Pepys Collection at A4agdalene 
College, Cambridge, sent me to Cambridge for a new transcript. 
On examination, the Magdalene edition proved to be identical with 



yohn Hey wood 1 7 

that at St. John's College, Oxford, which had previously been con- 
jecturally assigned to Rastell, perhaps by some one who had seen it 
before the last leaf disappeared. In reproducing Rastell's text I 
have not thought it necessary to print my collation of the later edi- 
tions, as it is clear that the unidentified edition at the University 
Library, Cambridge (U. L. C), was printed from Rastell's, and Kit- 
son's from this. The printer of the U. L. C. edition introduced 
some errors into his text, most of which Kitson copied : e.g. hote for 
hore in 1. 38, omission of second so in 1. 68, and of second as in 
1. 72, name for maner in 1. 115, or for ^in 1. 357, we for / in 1. 427, 
plumyng for plumpyng in 1. 657, thynges for thynge in 1. 660, showryng 
for skowryng in 1. 661, ye ^ov yt in 1. 699, and for all in 1. 705, belyke 
for be leak\e'\y in 1. 800 ; though he corrected a few : e.g. pale for dale 
in 1. 277. On the other hand, Kitson introduced some sixty or 
seventy errors of his own, such as creatour for creature in 1. 5, well 
for we in 1. 21, myngled for mynglynge in 1. 144, mery for mary in 
1. 366, heseched for hesecheth in 1. '^^'j^pycked iox: pry eked in 1. 467, 
bodily for boldely in 1. 470, solyter for solycyter in 1. 496, etc. As these 
variations are obviously misprints and nothing more, it would have 
been pedantic to record them in full, and these samples will doubt- 
less suffice. The following title-page is a representation, not a 
reproduction, of the original. There is no running head-line in 
Rastell's text. 

Alfred W. Pollard. 



CZTbe plaip of the wetber 



<LH new anb a vevi2 

mer^ enterlube of 

all manec wes= 

tbets mabe 

bi2 ?obn Ibe^woob, 



Blupiter a gou* 

£per^ leporte tl)e ij^ce* 

tlTlje gmt^lman^ 

tETlje marctjaunt* 

^\)t ranger* 

©lie fcoater miller* 

W\)t tD^nUe m^llm 

tlTlie gent^ltDoman* 

3Pl)e launuer* 

a bo^ tifte left ttjat can pla^* 

19 



The Play of the Wether 



Jupyter 



Au 




[Yght farre to longe, as now, were to recyte 

The auncyent estate wherein our selfe hath reyned, 
What honour, what laude, gyven us of very ryght, 
What glory we have had, dewly unfayned, 

Of eche creature, which dewty hath constrayned j 5 

For above all goddes, syns our father's fale. 

We, Jupiter, were ever pryncypale. 

If we so have beene, as treuth yt is in dede. 

Beyond the compas of all comparyson. 

Who coulde presume to shew, for any mede, 10 

So that yt myght appere to humayne reason. 

The hye renowne we stande in at this season ? 

For, syns that heven and earth were fyrste create, 

Stode we never in suche tryumphaunt estate 

As we now do, whereof we woU reporte 1 5 

Suche parte as we se mete for tyme present, 

Chyefely concernynge your ^ perpetuall comforte, 

As the thynge selfe shall prove in experyment, 

Whyche hyely shall bynde you, on knees lowly bent, 

Sooly to honour oure hyenes, day by day. 20 

And now to the mater gyve eare, and we shall say. 

Before our presens, in our hye parlyament. 
Both goddes and goddeses of all degrees 
Hath 2 late assembled, by comen assent, 

1 I.e. of the audience as representing mankind. 

2 For use as a plural cf. 1. 347 * besecheth,' 844 * ye doth.* 

%l 



22 The Play of the Wether 

For the redres of certayne enormytees, 25 

Bred amonge them, thorow extremytees 
Abusyd in eche to other of them all, 
Namely, to purpose, in these moste specyall : 

Our forsayde father Saturne, and Phebus, 

Eolus and Phebe, these foure ^ by name, 30 

Whose natures, not onely, so farre contraryous, 

But also of malyce eche other to defame. 

Have longe tyme abused, ryght farre out of frame, 

The dew course of all theyr constellacyons. 

To the great damage of all yerthly nacyons : 35 

Whyche was debated in place sayde before ; A ii A 

And fyrste, as became, our father moste auncyent, 

With berde whyte as snow, his lockes both colde & hore, 

Hath entred ^ such mater as served his entent, 

Laudynge his frosty mansyon in the fyrmament, 40 

To ayre & yerth as thynge moste precyous, 

Pourgynge all humours that are contagyous. 

How be yt, he alledgeth that, of longe tyme past, 

Lyttell hath prevayled his great dylygens. 

Full oft uppon yerth his fayre frost he hath cast, 45 

All thynges hurtfull to banysh out of presens. 

But Phebus, entendynge to kepe him in sylens. 

When he hath labored all nyght in his powres,^ 

His glarynge beamys maryth all in two howres. 

Phebus to this made no maner answerynge, 50 

Whereuppon they both then Phebe defyed, 

Eche for his parte leyd in her reprovynge 

That by her showres superfluous they have tryed*; 

In all that she may theyr powres be denyed ; 

Wherunto Phebe made answere no more 55 

Then Phebus to Saturne hadde made before. 

1 The dispensers respectively of frost, sunshine, wind, and rain. 

2 placed on record. ' powers, not * pores.' * that which they have experienced. 



The Play of the Wether 23 

Anone uppon Eolus all these dyd fle, 

Complaynynge theyr causes, eche one arow, 

And sayd, to compare, none was so evyll as he ; 

For, when he is dysposed his blastes to blow, 6o 

He sufFereth neyther sone-shyne, rayne nor snowe. 

They eche agaynste other, and he agaynste al three, — 

Thus can these iiii in no maner agree ! 

Whyche sene in themselfe, and further consyderynge. 

The same to redres was cause of theyr assemble ; 65 

And, also, that we, evermore beynge, 

Besyde our puysaunt power of deite. 

Of wysedome and nature so noble and so fre, 

From all extremytees the meane devydynge. 

To pease and plente eche thynge attemperynge, 70 

They have, in conclusyon, holly surrendryd A iii 

Into our handes, at mych as concernynge 

All maner wethers by them engendryd, 

The full of theyr powrs, for terme everlastynge, 

To set suche order as standyth wyth our pleasynge, ^^ 

Whyche thynge, as of our parte, no parte requyred, 

But of all theyr partys ryght humbly desyred. 

To take uppon us. Wherto we dyd assente. 

And so in all thynges, with one voyce agreable. 

We have clerely fynyshed our foresayd parleameht, 80 

To your great welth, whyche shall be fyrme and stable, 

And to our honour farre inestymable; 

For syns theyr powers, as ours, addyd to our owne, 

Who can, we say, know us as we shulde be knowne ? 

But now, for fyne,^ the rest of our entent, 85 

Wherfore, as now, we hyther are dyscendyd, 

Is onely to satysfye and content 

All maner people whyche have been ofFendyd 

By any wether mete to be amendyd, 

1 conclusion. 



24 The Play of the Wether 

Uppon whose complayntes, declarynge theyr grefe, 90 

We shall shape remedye for theyr relefe. 

And to gyve knowledge for theyr hyther resorte 
We wolde thys afore proclaymed to be, 
To all our people, by some one of thys sorte,^ 
Whome we lyste to choyse here amongest all ye. 95 

Wherfore eche man avaunce, and we shal se 
Whyche of you is moste mete to be our cryer. 

Here entreth Mery-reporte. 

Mery-reporte. Brother,^ holde up your torche a lytell hyer ! 

Now, I beseche you, my lorde, loke on me furste. 

I truste your lordshyp shall not fynde me the wurste. 1 00 

Jupyter. Why ! what arte thou that approchyst so ny ? 
Mery-reporte. Forsothe, and please your lordshyppe, it is I. 
Jupyter. All that we knowe very well. But what I ? 
Mery-reporte. What I ? Some saye I am I perse I.^ 

But, what maner I so ever be I, 105 

I assure your good lordshyp, I am I. 
Jupyter. What maner man arte thou, shewe quickely. A Hi b 

Mery-reporte. By god, a poore gentylman, dwellyth hereby. 
Jupyter. A gentylman ! Thyselfe bryngeth wytnes naye, 

Both in thy lyght behavour and araye. iio 

But what arte thou called where thou dost resorte ? 
Mery-reporte. Forsoth, my lorde, mayster Mery-reporte. 
Jupyter. Thou arte no mete man in our bysynes. 

For thyne apparence is of to mych lyghtnes. 
Mery-reporte. Why, can not your lordshyp lyke my maner 1 15 

Myne apparell, nor my name nother ? 
Jupyter. To nother of all we have devocyon. 
Mery-reporte. A proper lycklyhod of promocyon ! 

Well, than, as wyse as ye seme to be, 

Yet can ye se no wysdome in me. 120 

1 I.e. some one in the audience. 

2 Said to one of the attendants. 

3 The phrase in alphabet-learning for a letter sounded by itself j cf. H^tly Beguiled: "A 
per se A" (HaXvlcins' Origin of English Drama, 3 : 357. Oxford: 1772). 



The Play of the Wether 25 

But syns ye dysprayse me for so lyghte an elfe, 

I praye you gyve me leve to prayse my-selfe : 

And, for the fyrste parte, I wyll begyn 

In my behavour at my commynge in, 

Wherin I thynke I have lytell offendyd, 1 25 

For, sewer, my curtesy coulde not be amendyd j 

And, as for my sewt your servaunt to be, 

Myghte yll have bene myst for your honeste ; 

For, as I be saved, yf I shall not lye, 

I saw no man sew for the ofFyce but I ! 1 30 

Wherfore yf ye take me not or I go. 

Ye must anone, whether ye wyll or no. 

And syns your entent is but for the wethers, 

What skyls ^ our apparell to be fryse ^ or fethers ? 

I thynke it wisdome, syns no man forbad it, 135 

With thys to spare a better — yf I had it ! 

And, for my name, reportyng alwaye trewly. 

What hurte to reporte a sad mater merely ? 

As, by occasyon, for the same entent. 

To a serteyne wedow thys daye was I sent, 140 

Whose husbande departyd wythout her wyttynge, 

A specyall good lover and she hys owne swettynge ! ^ 

To whome, at my commyng, I caste suche a fygure, 

Mynglynge the mater accordynge to my nature. 

That when we departyd,* above al other thynges, 145 

She thanked me hartely for my mery tydynges ! 

And yf I had not handled yt merely, A iv 

Perchaunce she myght have taken yt hevely ; 

But in suche facyon I conjured and bounde her, 

That I left her meryer then I founde her! 150 

What man may compare to showe the lyke comforte 

That dayly is shewed by me, Mery-reporte ? 

And, for your purpose, at this tyme ment. 

For all wethers I am so indyfPerent,^ 

Without affeccyon, standynge so up-ryght, 155 

Son-lyght, mone-lyght, ster-lyght, twy-light, torch-light, 

latters. 2 frieze. ^ sweeting, sweetheart, * separated. ^ impartial 



26 The Play of the Wether 

Cold, hete, moyst, drye, hayle, rayne, frost, snow, lightnyng, 

thunder. 
Cloudy, mysty, wyndy, fayre, fowle, above hed or under, 
Temperate or dystemperate, whatever yt be, 
I promyse your lordshyp, all is one to me. i6o 

Jupyter. Well, sonne, consydrynge thyne indyfFerency, 
And partely the rest of thy declaracyon. 
We make the our servaunte and immediately 
Well woll thou departe and cause proclamacyon, 
Publyshynge our pleasure to every nacyon, 165 

Whyche thynge ons done, wyth all dylygens. 
Make thy returne agayne to this presens. 

Here to recey ve all sewters of eche degre ; 

And suche as to the may seme moste metely. 

We wyll thou brynge them before our majeste, 1 70 

And for the rest, that be not so worthy. 

Make thou reporte to us effectually. 

So that we may heare eche maner sewte at large. 

Thus se thow departe and loke uppon thy charge ! 

Mery-reporte. Now, good my lorde god, our lady be wyth ye I 175 
Frendes, a fellyshyppe,^ let me go by ye ! 
Thynke ye I may stande thrustyng amonge you there ? 
Nay, by god, I muste thruste aboute other gere ! 

Mery-reporte goeth out. 

At thende ^ of this staf^ the god hath a song played in his trone or 
Mery-reporte come in. 

'Jupiter. Now, syns we have thus farre set forth our purpose, 

A whyle we woll wythdraw our godly presens, 180 

To embold all such more playnely to dysclose. 
As here wyll attende, in our foresayd pretens. 
And now, accordynge to your obedyens, Aiv^ 

Rejoyce ye in us with joy most joyfully. 

And we our-selfe shall joy in our owne glory ! 185 

[Jupiter here closes the curtains of his throne.'^ 
1 out of good fellowship. 2 the end. ^ equivalent to stanza. 



The Play of the Wether 27 

Mery-reporte Cometh in. 

Mery-reporte. Now, syrs, take hede ! for here cometh goddes ser- 
vaunt ! 
Avaunt ! carte [r]ly keytyfs,^ avaunt ! 
Why, ye dronken horesons, wyll yt not be ? 
By your fayth, have ye nother cap nor kne ? 
Not one of you that wyll make curtsy 190 

To me, that am squyre for goddes precyous body ? 
Regarde ye nothynge myne authoryte ? 
No welcome home ! nor where have ye be ? 
How be yt, yf ye axyd, I coulde not well tell. 
But suer I thynke a thousande myle from hell, 195 

And on my fayth, I thinke, in my consciens, 
I have been from hevyn as farre as heven is hens. 
At Lovyn,^ at London and in Lombardy, 
At Baldock,^ at Barfolde,* and in Barbary, 
At Canturbery, at Coventre, at Colchester, 200 

At Wansworth and Welbecke,^ at Westchester, 
At Fullam, at Faleborne, and at Fenlow, 
At Wallyngford, at Wakefeld, and at Waltamstow, 
At Tawnton, at Typtre^ and at Totnam,^ 
At Glouceter, at Gylford and at Gotham, 205 

At Hartforde, at Harwyche, at Harowe on the hyll. 
At Sudbery,^ Suth hampton, at Shoters Hyll,^ 
At Walsingham, at Wyttam^^ and at Werwycke, 
At Boston, at Brystow^^ and at Berwycke, 
At Gravelyn,i2 ^t Gravesend, and at Glastynbery, 210 

Ynge Gyngiang Jayberd the paryshe of Butsbery.^^ 
The devyll hym-selfe, wythout more leasure. 
Could not have gone halfe thus myche, 1 am sure ! 

1 clownish rascals. "^ Tottenham. 

2 Lou vain. ^ In Suffolk. 

3 In Herts. ® Near Woolwich. 

* Perhaps one of the numerous Barfords. ^^ Witham, in Essex. 

^ In Notts. 11 Bristol. 

® In Essex. ' ^'^ Possibly Gravelye near Baldock. 

^* There is a parish of Buttsbury in Essex : * ynge Gyngiang Jayberd ' defies explanation. 



J 



28 The Play of the IF ether 

But, now I have warned ^ them, let them even chose ; 

For, in fayth, I care not who wynne or lose 215 

Here the gentylman before he cometh in bloweth his home, 

Mery-reporte, Now, by my trouth, this was a goodly hearyng, 

I went yt had ben the gentylwomans blowynge ! 

But yt is not so, as I now suppose. 

For womens homes sounde more in a mannys nose. 220 

Gentylman. Stande ye mery, my frendes, everychone. B i 

Mery-reporte. Say that to me and let the rest alone ! 

Syr, ye be welcome, and all your meyny. 
Gentylman. Now, in good sooth, my frende, god a mercy ! 

And syns that I mete the here thus by chaunce, 225 

I shall requyre the of further acqueyntaunce, 

And brevely to shew the, this is the mater. JJ 

I come to sew to the great god Jupyter \\ 

For helpe of thynges concernynge my recreacyon, 

Accordynge to his late proclamacyon. 230 

Mery-reporte. Mary, and I am he that this must spede. 

But fyrste tell me what be ye in dede. 
Gentylman. Forsoth, good frende, I am a gentylman. 
Mery-reporte. A goodly occupacyon, by seynt Anne ! 

On my fayth, your maship^ hath a mery life. 235 

But who maketh all these homes, your self or your wife ? 

Nay, even in earnest, I aske you this questyon. 
Gentylman. Now, by my trouth, thou art a mery one. 
Mery-reporte. In fayth, of us both I thynke never one sad, 

For I am not so mery but ye seme as mad ! 240 

But stande ye styll and take a lyttell payne, 

I wyll come to you, by and by, agayne. 

Now, gracyous god, yf your wyll so be, 

I pray ye, let me speke a worde wyth ye 
Jupyter. My Sonne, say on ! Let us here thy mynde 245 

Mery-reporte. My lord, there standeth a sewter even here behynde, 

A Gentylman, in yonder corner, 

1 Have given notice to the petitioners to appear. The ' cry ' is supposed to have been made 
outside. "^ mastership. 



I 



The Play of the Wether 29 

And, as I thynke, his name is Mayster Horner 

A hunter he is, and cometh to make you sporte. 

He wolde hunte a sow or twayne out of thys sorte.^ 250 

Here he poynteth to the women. 

Jupyter. What so ever his mynde be, let hym appere. 

Mery-reporte. Now, good mayster Horner, I pray you come nere. 

Gentylman. I am no horner, knave! I wyll thou know yt. 

Mery-reporte. I thought ye had [been] , for when ye dyd blow yt, 
Harde I never horeson make home so goo. 255 

As lefe ye kyste myne ars as blow my hole soo ! 
Come on your way, before the God Jupyter, 
And there for your selfe ye shall be sewter. 

Gentylman. Most myghty prynce and god of every nacyon, 

Pleaseth your hyghnes to vouchsave the herynge 260 

Of me, whyche, accordynge to [y]our proclamacyon, Bi^ 

Doth make apparaunce, in way of besechynge, 

Not sole for myself, but generally 

For all come of noble and auncyent stock, 

Whych sorte above all doth most thankfully 265 

Dayly take payne for welth of the comen flocke, 

With dylygent study alway devysynge 

To kepe them in order and unyte. 

In peace to labour the encrees of theyr lyvynge, 

Wherby eche man may prosper in plente. 270 

Wherfore, good god, this is our hole desyrynge, 

That for ease of our paynes, at tymes vacaunt, 

In our recreacyon, whyche chyefely is huntynge. 

It may please you to sende us wether pleasaunt, 

Drye and not mysty, the wynde calme and styll. 275 

That after our houndes yournynge^ so meryly, 

Chasynge the dere over dale and hyll. 

In herynge we may folow and to-comfort the cry. 

"Jupyter. Ryght well we do perceyve your hole request, 

Whyche shall not fayle to reste in memory, 280 

Wherfore we wyll ye set your-selfe at rest, 

1 the audience. ^ journeying. 



30 The Play of the Wether 

Tyll we have herde eche man indyfFerently, 
And we shall take suche order, unyversally, 
As best may stande to our honour infynyte, 
For welth in commune and ech mannys synguler profyte. 285 

Gentylman. In heven and yerth honoured be the name 
Of Jupyter, who of his godly goodnes 
Hath set this mater in so goodly frame, 
That every wyght shall have his desyre, doutles. 
And fyrst for us nobles and gentylmen, 290 

I doute not, in his wysedome, to provyde 
Suche wether as in our huntynge, now and then. 
We may both teyse ^ and recey ve ^ on every syde. 
Whyche thynge, ones had, for our seyd recreacyon, 
Shall greatly prevayle^ you in preferrynge our helth 295 

For what thynge more nedefull then our preservacyon, 
Beynge the weale and heddes of all comen welth ? 

Mery-reporte. Now I besech your mashyp, whose hed be you ? 

Gentylman. Whose hed am I ? Thy hed. What seyst thou now ? 

Mery-reporte. Nay, I thynke yt very trew, so god me helpe ! 300 
For I have ever bene, of a lyttell whelpe, B ii 

So full of fansyes, and in so many fyttes. 
So many smale reasons, and in so many wyttes, 
That, even as I stande, I pray God I be dede, 
If ever I thought them all mete for one hede. 305 

But syns I have one hed more then I knew. 
Blame not my rejoycynge, — I love all thinges new. 
And suer it is a t'reasour of heddes to have store : 
One feate can I now that I never coude before. 

Gentylman. What is that ? 

Mery-reporte. By god, syns ye came hyther, 310 

I can set my hedde and my tayle togyther. 
This hed shall save mony, by Saynt Mary, 
From hensforth I wyll no potycary ; 
For at al tymys, when suche thynges shall myster 
My new hed shall geve myne olde tayle a glyster.* 315 

And, after all this, then shall my hedde wayte 

1 rouse the game. ^ call off after a kill. ^ avail. * clyster, purge. 



1 



. 



The Play of the Wether 31 

Uppon my tayle, and there stande at receyte. 

Syr, for the reste I wyll not now move you, 

But, yf we ly ve, ye shall smell how I love yow. 

And, sir, touchyng your sewt here, depart, when it please you 

For be ye suer, as I can I wyll ease you. 321 

Gentylman. Then gyve me thy hande. That promyse I take. 

And yf for my sake any sewt thou do make, 

I promyse thy payne to be requyted 

More largely than now shall be recyted. 325 

Mery-reporte. Alas, my necke ! Goddes pyty, where is my hed ? 

By Saynt Yve, I feare me I shall be deade. 

And yf I were, me-thvnke yt were no wonder, 

Syns my hed and my body is so farre asonder, 

Entreth the Marchaunt. 

Mayster person,^ now welcome by my life ! 330 

I pray you, how doth my maistres, your wyfe ? ^ 

Marchaunt. Syr, for the presthod and wyfe that ye alledge 
I se ye speke more of dotage then knowledge. 
But let pas, syr, I wolde to you be sewter 
To brynge me, yf ye can, before Jupiter. 335 

\Mery-reporte^ Yes, Mary, can I, and wyll do yt in dede. 

Tary, and I shall make wey for your spede. {Goes to Jupyter] 
In fayth, good lorde, yf it please your gracyous godshyp, 
I muste have a worde or twayne wyth your lordship. ^\\h 

Syr, yonder is a nother man in place, 340 

Who maketh great sewt to speke wyth your grace. 
Your pleasure ones knowen, he commeth by and by.^ 

'Jupyter. Bryng hym before our presens, sone, hardely. 

Mery-reporte. Why ! where be you ? shall I not fynde ye ? 

Come a-way, I pray god, the devyll blynde ye ! 345 

Marchaunt. Moste myghty prynce and lorde of lordes all, 
Right humbly besecheth your majeste 
Your marchaunt-men thorow the worlde all, 

^ parson. 

2 As the play was written before 1533, the clergy were still celibates, and this is only Mery- 
reporte's ' humour. ' ^ immediately. 



32 The Play of the Wether 

That yt may please you, of your benygnyte, 

In the dayly daunger of our goodes and lyfe, 350 

Fyrste to consyder the desert of our request, 

What welth we bryng the rest, to our great care & stryfe, 

And then to rewarde u'^ a-^ ye shall thynke best. 

What were the surplysage oi eche commodyte, 

Whyche groweth and "ncreaseth in every lande, 355 

Excepte exchaunge by suche men as we be ? 

By wey of entercours, that lyeth on our hande ^ 

We fraught from home, thynges wherof there is plente ; 

And home we brynge such thynges as there be scant. 

Who sholde afore us marchauntes accompted be ? 360 

For were not we, the worlde shuld wyshe and want 

In many thynges, whych now shall lack rehersall. 

And, brevely to conclude, we beseche your hyghnes 

That of the benefyte proclaymed in generall 

We may be parte-takers, for comen encres, 365 

Stablyshynge wether thus, pleasynge your grace, 

Stormy, nor mysty, the wynde mesurable. 

That savely we may passe from place to place, 

Berynge our seylys for spede moste vayleable ; ^ 

And also the wynde to chaunge and to turne, 370 

Eest, West, North and South, as best may be set. 

In any one place not to longe to sojourne. 

For the length of our vyage may lese our market. 

yupyter. Right well have ye sayde, and we accept yt so, 

And so shall we rewarde you ere we go hens. 375 

But ye muste take pacyens tyll we have harde mo,^ 

That we may indyfFerently gyve sentens. 

There may passe by us no spot of neglygence. 

But justely to judge eche thynge, so upryghte B iii 

That ech mans parte maye shyne in the selfe ryghte.'* 380 

Mery-reporte. Now, syr, by your fayth, yf ye shulde be sworne, 
Harde ye ever god speke so, syns ye were borne ? 
So wysely, so gentylly hys wordes be showd ! 

1 Explained by * thynges wherof there is plente. ' ^ heard more, or others. 

2 available. 4 in the same rightness. 



I 
1 



The Play of the Whether 33 

Marchaunt. I thanke hys grace. My sewte is well bestowd. 

Mery-reporte. Syr, what vyage entende ye nexte to go ? 385 

Marchaunt, I truste or myd-lente to be to Syo.^ 

Mery-reporte. Ha, ha ! Is it your mynde to sayle at Syo ? 
Nay, then, when ye wyll, byr lady, ye maye go, 
And let me alone with thys. Be of good chere ! 
Ye maye truste me at Syo as well as here. 390 

For though ye were fro me a thousande myle space, 
I wolde do as myche as ye were here in place. 
For, syns that from hens it is so farre thyther, 
I care not though ye never come agayne hyther. 

Marchaunt. Syr, yf ye remember me, when tyme shall come, 395 
Though I requyte not all, I shall deserve some. 

Exeat Marchaunt. 

Mery-reporte. Now, farre ye well, & god thanke you, by saynt Anne, 
I pray you, marke the fasshyon of thys honeste manne ; 
He putteth me in more truste, at thys metynge here, 
Then he shall fynde cause why, thys twenty yere. 400 

Here entreth the Ranger. 

Ranger, God be here, now Cryst kepe thys company ! 
Mery-reporte. In fayth, ye be welcome, evyn very skantely ! 

Syr, for your comynge what is the mater ? 
Ranger. I wolde fayne speke with the god Jupyter. 
Mery-reporte. That wyll not be, but ye may do thys — 405 

Tell me your mynde. I am an offycer of hys. 
Ranger. Be ye so ? Mary, I crye you marcy. 

Your maystership may say I am homely. 

But syns your mynde is to have reportyd 

The cause wherfore I am now resortyd, 41 

Pleasyth your maystership it is so. 

I come for my-selfe and suche other mo, 

Rangers and kepers of certayne places. 

As forestes, parkes, purlews and chasys^ 

Where we be chargyd with all maner game. 415 

1 Scio (Chios). 

2 Purlieus are technically the woods adjacent to a royal forest j a chase is an unenclosed part. 



34 The Play of the Wether 

Smale in our profyte and great is our blame. 

Alas ! For our wages, what be we the nere ? 

What is forty shyllynges, or fyve marke, a yere ? B iii b 

Many tymes and oft, where we be flyttynge. 

We spende forty pens a pece at a syttinge. 420 

Now for our vauntage, whyche chefely is wyndefale. 

That is ryght nought, there bloweth no wynde at all, 

Whyche is the thynge wherin we fynde most grefe, 

And cause for my commynge to sew for relefe. 

That the god, of pyty, al thys thynge knowynge, 425 

May sende us good rage of blustryng and blowynge, 

And, yf I can not get god to do some good, 

I wolde hyer the devyll to runne thorow the wood. 

The rootes to turne up, the toppys to brynge under. 

A mischyefe upon them, and a wylde thunder ! 430 

Mery-reporte. Very well sayd, I set by your charyte 

As mych, in a maner, as by your honeste. 

I shall set you somwhat in ease anone. 

Ye shall putte on your cappe, when I am gone. 

For, I se, ye care not who wyn or lese, 435 

So ye maye fynde meanys to wyn your fees. 
Ranger, Sy/, as in that, ye speke as it please ye. 

But let me speke with the god, yf it maye be. 

I pray you, lette me passe ye. 
Mery-reporte. Why, nay, syr ! By the masse, ye — 440 

Ranger. Then wyll I leve you evyn as I founde ye. 
Mery-reporte. Go when ye wyll. No man here hath bounde ye. 

Here entreth the Water Myller and the Ranger goth out. 

Water Myller. What the devyll shold skyl,i though all the world 
were dum, 
Syns in all our spekynge we never be harde ? 
We crye out for rayne, the devyll sped drop wyll cum. 445 
We water myllers be nothynge in regarde. 
No water have we to grynde at any stynt. 
The wynde is so stronge the rayne cannot fall, 

1 What on earth would it matter ? 



K 



The Play of the Wether 35 

Whyche kepeth our myldams as drye as a flynt. 

We are undone, we grynde nothynge at all, 450 

The greter is the pyte, as thynketh me. 

For what avayleth to eche man his corne, 

Tyll it be grounde by such men as we be ? 

There is the loss, yf we be forborne.^ 

For, touchynge our-selfes, we are but drudgys, 455 

And very beggers save onely our tole, B iv 

Whiche is ryght smale and yet many grudges 

For gryste of a busshell to gyve a quarte bole.2 

Yet, were not reparacyons, we myght do wele. 

Our mylstons, our whele with her kogges, & our trindill^ 460 

Our floodgate, our mylpooll, our water whele. 

Our hopper,^ our extre,^ our yren spyndyll. 

In this and mych more so great is our charge. 

That we wolde not recke though no water ware. 

Save onely it toucheth eche man so large, 465 

And ech for our neyghbour Cryste byddeth us care. 

Wherfore my conscience hath prycked me hyther, 

In thys to sewe, accordynge to the cry ,6 

For plente of raine to the god Jupiter 

To whose presence I wyll go evyn boldely. 470 

Mery-reporte. Sir, I dowt nothynge your audacyte, 

But I feare me ye lacke capacyte, % 

P'or, yf ye were wyse, ye myghte well espye. 

How rudely ye erre from rewls of courtesye. 

What! ye come in revelynge and reheytynge,^ 475 

Evyn as a knave might go to a beare-beytynge ! 
Water My Her. All you here record e what favour I have ! 

Herke, howe famylyerly he calleth me knave ! 

Dowtles the gentylman is universall ! 

But marke thys lesson, syr. You shulde never call 480 

Your felow knave, nor your brother horeson ; 

For nought can ye get by it, when ye have done. 

1 dispensed with, missed. 5 axletree, 

2 To give two pounds of wheat for grinding sixty-four. 6 Jupiter's proclamation. 
^ wheel. 4 feeder of the miU. 7 making rejoice. 



36 The Play of the Wether 

Mery-reporte. Thou arte nother brother nor felowe to me, 

For I am goddes servaunt, mayst thou not se ? 

Wolde ye presume to speke with the great god ? 485 

Nay, dyscrecyon and you be to farre od ! ^ 

Byr lady, these knaves must be tyed shorter.^ 

Syr, who let you in ? Spake ye with the porter ? 
Water Myller. Nay, by my trouth, nor wyth no nother man. 

Yet I saw you well, when I fyrst began. 490 

How be it, so helpe me god and holydam,^ 

I toke you but for a knave, as I am. 

But, mary, now, syns I knowe what ye be, 

I muste and wyll obey your authoryte. 

And yf I maye not speke wyth Jupiter 495 

I beseche you be my solycyter. B iv ^ 

Mery-reporte. As in that, I wyl be your well-wyller. 

I perceyve you be a water myller. 

And your hole desyre, as I take the mater. 

Is plente of rayne for encres of water. 500 

The let wherof, ye afFyrme determynately, 

Is onely the wynde, your mortall enemy. 
Water Myller. Trouth it is, for it blowyth so alofte. 

We never have rayne, or, at the most, not ofte. 

Wherfore, I praye you, put the god in mynde 505 

^ Clerely for ever to banysh the wynde. 

Here entreth the Wynde Myller. 

Wynde Myller. How ! Is all the wether gone or I come ? 
For the passyon of god, helpe me to some. 
I am a wynd-miller, as many mo be. 

No wretch in wretchydnes so wrechyd as we ! 510 

The hole sorte * of my crafte be all mard at onys, 
The wynde is so weyke it sturryth not our stonys. 
Nor skantely can shatter^ the shyttyn sayle 
That hangeth shatterynge^ at a womans tayle. 

^ too far at variance. * assembly. 

2 given less freedom. ^ scatter, blow about. 

* the kingdom of saints. ^ flying apart. 



The Play of the Wether 37 

The rayne never resteth, so longe be the showres, 515 

From tyme of begynnyng tyl foure & twenty howres ; 

And, ende whan it shall, at nyght or at none, 

An-other begynneth as soone as that is done. 

Such revell of rayne ye knowe well inough, 

Destroyeth the wynde, be it never so rough, 520 

Wherby, syns our myllys be come to styll standynge, 

Now maye we wynd-myllers go evyn to hangynge. 

A myller ! with a moryn ^ and a myschyefe ! 

Who wolde be a myller ? As good be a thefe ! 

Yet in tyme past, when gryndynge was plente, 525 

Who were so lyke goddys felows as we ? 

As faste as god made corne, we myllers made meale. 

Whyche myght be best forborne ^ for comyn weale ? 

But let that gere passe, for I feare our pryde 

Is cause of the care whyche god doth us provyde. 530 

Wherfore I submyt me, entepdynge to se 

What comforte may come by humylyte. 

And, now, at thys tyme, they sayd in the crye, 

The god is come downe to shape remedye. 
Mery-reporte. No doute, he is here, even in yonder trone. C 535 

But in your mater he trusteth me alone, 

Wherein, I do perceyve by your complaynte, 

Oppressyon of rayne doth make the wynde so faynte, 

That ye wynde-myllers be clene caste away. 
Wynde Myller. If Jupyter helpe not, yt is as ye say. 540 

But, in few wordes to tell you my mynde rounde,^ 

Uppon this condycyon I wolde be bounde, 

Day by day to say our ladyes' sauter,* 

That in this world were no drope of water. 

Nor never rayne, but wynde contynuall, 545 

Then shold we wynde myllers be lordes over all. 
Mery-reporte. Come on and assay how you twayne can agre — 

A brother of yours, a myller as ye be ! 
Water Myller. By meane of our craft we may be brothers, 

1 murrain, plague. 8 roundly, completely. 

2 dispensed with. * thfe psalms appointed for the Hours of the Blessed Virgin. 



38 The Play of the Wether 

But whyles we lyve shal we never be lovers. 550 

We be of one crafte, but not of one kynde, 
1 lyve by water and he by the wynde. 

Here Mery-report goth out* 

And, syr, as ye desyre wynde continuall, 

So wolde I have rayne ever-more to fall, 

Whyche two in experyence, ryght well ye se, 555 

Ryght selde, or never, to-gether can be. 

For as longe as the wynde rewleth, yt is playne, 

Twenty to one ye get no drop of rayne ; 

And when the element is to farre opprest, 

Downe commeth the rayne and setteth the wynde at reste. 560 

By this, ye se, we can-not both obtayne. 

For ye must lacke wynde, or I must lacke rayne. 

Wherfore I thynke good, before this audiens, 

Eche for our selfe to say, or we go hens ; 

And whom is thought weykest, when we have fynysht, 565 

Leve of his sewt and content to be banysht. 
Wynde Myller. In fayth, agreed ! but then, by your lycens. 

Our mylles for a tyme shall hange in suspens. 

Syns water and wynde is chyefely our sewt, 

Whyche best may be spared we woll fyrst dyspute. ~ 570 

Wherfore to the see my reason shall resorte. 

Where shyppes by meane of wynd try from port to porte, 

From lande to lande, in dystaunce many a myle, — 

Great is the passage and smale is the whyle. 

So great is the profite, as to me doth seme, Ci h 575 

That no man's wysdome the welth can exteme.^ 

And syns the wynde is conveyer of all 

Who but the wynde shulde have thanke above all ? 
Water Myller. Amytte ^ in this place a tree here to growe, 

And therat the wynde in great rage to blowe ; 5 80 

When it hath all blowen, thys is a clere case. 

The tre removeth no here-bred ^ from hys place. 

No more wolde the shyppys, blow the best it cowde. 

1 esteem. ^ admit. ^ hair-breadth. 



The Play of the JV ether 39 

All though it wolde blow downe both mast & shrowde, 

Except the shyppe flete ^ uppon the water 585 

The wynde can ryght nought do, — a playne matter. 

Yet maye ye on water, wythout any wynde, 

Row forth your vessell where men wyll have her synde.2 

Nothynge more rejoyceth the maryner. 

Then meane cooles ^ of wynde and plente of water. 590 

For, commenly, the cause of every wracke 

Is excesse of wynde, where water doth lacke. 

In rage of these stormys the perell is suche 

That better were no wynde then so farre to muche. 
Wynde Myller. Well, yf my reason in thys may not stande, 595 

I wyll forsake the see and lepe to lande. 

In every chyrche where goddys servyce is. 

The organs beare brunt of halfe the quere,* i-wys. 

Whyche causeth the sounde, of water or wynde .? 

More-over for wynde thys thynge I fynde 600 

P'or the most parte all maner mynstrelsy. 

By wynde they delyver theyr sound chefly, 

Fyll me a bagpype of your water full. 

As swetely shall it sounde as it were stufFyd with wull. 
Water Myller. On my fayth I thynke the moone be at the full, 605 

For frantyke fansyes be then most plentefull. 

Which are at the pryde of theyr sprynge in your ^ hed, 

So farre from our matter he ^ is now fled. 

As for the wynde in any instrument. 

It is no percell of our argument, 610 

We spake of wynde that comyth naturally 

And that is wynde forcyd artyfycyally, 

Whyche is not to purpose. But, yf it were. 

And water, in dede, ryght nought coulde do there. 

Yet I thynke organs no suche commodyte,^ C ii 615 

Wherby the water shulde banyshed be. 

And for your bagpypes, I take them as nyfuls,^ 

Your mater is all in fansyes and tryfuls. 

1 float. 3 moderate cool breezes. ^ 5/^ in all editions. "^ Indistinguishable from trifles. 

2 sent. ^ choir. ^ of not sufficient advantage. 



40 The Play of the Wether 

Wynde Myller, By god, but ye shall not tryfull me of^ so! 

Yf these thynges serve not, I wyll reherse mo. 620 

And now to mynde there is one olde proverbe come, 
One bushel! of marche dust is worth a kynges raunsome. 
What is a hundreth thousande bushels worth than ? 

Water Myller. Not one myte, for the thynge selfe, to no man. 

Wynde Myller. Why shall wynde every-where thus be objecte ? 625 
Nay, in the hye wayes he shall take efFecte, 
Where as the rayne doth never good but hurt. 
For wynde maketh but dust and water maketh durt. 
Powder or syrop, syrs, whyche lycke ye best ? 
Who lycketh not the tone maye lycke up the rest. 630 

But, sure, who-so-ever hath assayed such syppes, 
Had lever have dusty eyes then durty lyppes. 
And it is sayd, syns afore we were borne. 
That drought doth never make derth of corne. 
And well it is knowen, to the most foole here, 635 

How rayne hath pryced corne within this vii. yeare.^ 

Water Myller. Syr, I pray the, spare me a lytyll season. 
And I shall brevely conclude the wyth reason. 
Put case on ^ somers daye wythout wynde to be. 
And ragyous wynde in wynter dayes two or thre, 640 

Mych more shall dry that one calme daye in somer, 
Then shall those thre wyndy dayes in wynter. 
Whom shall we thanke for thys, when all is done ? 
The thanke to wynde ? Nay ! Thanke chyefely the sone. 
And so for drought, yf corne therby encres, 645 

The sone doth comfort and rype all dowtles. 
And oft the wynde so leyth the corne, god wot, 
That never after can it rype, but rot. 
Yf drought toke place, as ye say, yet maye ye se, 

lofF. 

2 The earliest reference to a dearth of corn in the reign of Henry VIII. which I can find in 
Holinshed is mb anno 1523, when he states that the price in London was 2.0 %. a quarter, but 
without assigning any cause. The reference here is, I think, clearly to the great rains of the 
autumn of 1527 and April and May, 1528, of which Holinshed writes that they "caused great 
floods and did much harme namelie in tbrne, so that the next yeare [1528 ?] it failed within 
the realme and great dearth ensued." ^ one. 



\ 



I 



The Play of the Wether 41 

Lytell helpeth the wynde in thys commodyte. 650 

But, now, syr, I deny your pryncypyll. 
Yf drought ever were, it were impossybyll 
To have ony grayne, for, or it can grow. 
Ye must plow your lande, harrow and sow, 
Whyche wyll not be, except ye maye have rayne CU* 655 
To temper the grounde, and after agayne 
For spryngynge and plumpyng all maner corne 
Yet muste ye have water, or all is forlorne. 
Yf ye take water for no commodyte 

Yet must ye take it for thynge of necessyte, 660 

For washynge, for skowrynge, all fylth clensynge. 
Where water lacketh what bestely beynge ! 
In brewyng, in bakynge, in dressynge of meate, 
Yf ye lacke water, what coulde ye drynke or eate ? 
Wythout water coulde lyve neyther man nor best, 665 

For water preservyth both moste and lest. 
For water coulde I say a thousande thynges mo, 
Savynge as now the tyme wyll not serve so ; 
And as for that wynde that you do sew fore. 
Is good for your wynde-myll and for no more. 670 

Syr, syth all thys in experyence is tryde, 
I say thys mater standeth clere on my syde. 
Wynde Myller, Well, syns thys wyll not serve, I wyll alledge the 
reste. 
Syr, for our myllys I saye myne is the beste. 
My wynd-myll shall grynd more corne in one our 675 

Then thy water-myll shall in thre or foure. 
Ye more then thyne shulde in a hole yere, 
Yf thou myghtest have as thou hast wyshyd here. 
For thou desyrest to have excesse of rayne, 
Whych thyng to the were the worst thou couldyst obtayne. 680 
For, yf thou dydyst, it were a playne induccyon ^ 
To make thyne owne desyer thyne owne destruccyon. 
For in excesse of rayne at any flood 
Your myllys must stande styll ; they can do no good. 
1 preliminary. 



42 The Play of the Wether 

And whan the wynde doth blow the uttermost 685 

Our wyndmylles walke a-mayne in every cost. 
For, as we se the wynde in hys estate, 
We moder ^ our-saylys after the same rate. 
Syns our myllys grynde so farre faster then yours, 
And also they may grynde all tymes and howrs, 690 

I say we nede no water-mylles at all, 
For wyndmylles be sufFycyent to serve all. 
Water Myller. Thou spekest of all and consyderest not halfe ! 
In boste of thy gryste thou art wyse as a calfe ! 
For, though above us your mylles grynde farre faster, C in 695 
What helpe to those from whome ye be myche farther ? 
And, of two sortes, yf the tone shold be conserved, 
I thynke yt mete the moste nomber be served. 
In vales and weldes, where moste commodyte is. 
There is most people : ye must graunte me this. 700 

On hylles & downes, whyche partes are moste barayne, 
There muste be few ; yt can no mo sustayne. 
I darre well say, yf yt were tryed even now. 
That there is ten of us to one of you. 

And where shuld chyefely all necessaryes be, 705 

But there as people are moste in plcnte ? 
More reason that you come vii. myle to myll 
Then all we of the vale sholde clyme the hyll. 
If rayne came reasonable, as I requyre yt. 
We sholde of your wynde mylles have nede no whyt. 710 

Entreth Mery-reporte. 

Mery-reporte. Stop, folysh knaves, for your reasonynge is suche. 
That ye have resoned even ynough and to much. 
I hard all the wordes that ye both have hadde. 
So helpe me god, the knaves be more then madde ! 
Nother of them both that hath wyt nor grace, 715 

To perceyve that both myllys may serve in place. 
Betwene water and wynde there is no suche let. 
But eche myll may have tyme to use his fet. 

1 moderate, adjust. 



The Play of the Wether 43 

Whyche thynge I can tell by experyens ; 

For I have, of myne owne, not farre from hens, 720 

In a corner to-gether a couple of myllys, 

Standynge in a marres ^ betweene two hyllys, 

Not of inherytaunce, but by my wyfe; 

She is feofed in the tayle for terme of her lyfe, 

The one for wynde, the other for water. 725 

And of them both, I thanke god, there standeth^ nother ; 

For, in a good hour be yt spoken. 

The water gate is no soner open. 

But clap, sayth the wyndmyll, even strayght behynde ! 

There is good spedde, the devyll and all they grynde ! 730 

But whether that the hopper be dusty. 

Or that the mylstonys be sumwhat rusty. 

By the mas, the meale is myschevous musty ! 

And yf ye thynke my tale be not trusty, C iii ^ 

I make ye trew promyse : come, when ye lyste, 735 

We shall fynde meane ye shall taste of the gryst. 
Water Myller. The corne at receyte happely is not good. 
Mery-reporte. There can be no sweeter, by the sweet roode ! 

Another thynge yet, whyche shall not be cloked. 

My watermyll many tymes is choked. 740 

Water Myller. So wyll she be, though ye shuld burste your bones. 

Except ye be perfyt in settynge your stones. 

Fere not the lydger,^ beware your ronner. 

Yet this for the lydger, or ye have wonne her, 

Parchaunce your lydger doth lacke good peckyng. 745 

Mery-reporte, So sayth my wyfe, & that maketh all our checkyng. * 

She wolde have the myll peckt, peckt, peckt, every day ! 

But, by god, myllers muste pecke when they may ! 

So oft have we peckt that our stones wax right thynne, 

And all our other gere not worth a pyn, 750 

For with peckynge and peckyng I have so wrought, 

That I have peckt a good peckynge-yron to nought. 

1 morass. 2 stands still. 

^ the flat fixed stone (or bed stqne) over which the turning stone, or runner^ moved. 

* reviling. 



44 The Play of the Wether 

How be yt, yf I stycke no better tyll her, 

My wyfe sayth she wyll have a new myller. 

But let yt passe ! and now to our mater ! 755 

I say my myllys lacke nother wynde nor water ; 

No more do yours, as farre as nede doth requyre. 

But, syns ye can not agree, I wyll desyre 

Jupyter to set you both in suche rest 

As to your welth and his honour may stande best. 760 

Water Myller. I praye you hertely remember me. 
Wynde Myller. Let not me be forgoten, I beseche ye. 

Both Myllers goth forth. 

Mery-reporte. If I remember you not both alyke 
I wolde ye were over the eares in the dyke. 
Now be we ryd of two knaves at one chaunce. 765 

By saynte Thomas, yt is a knavyshe ryddaunce. 

The Gentylwoman entreth. 

Gentylwoman. Now, good god, what a foly is this ? 

What sholde I do where so mych people is ? 

I know not how to passe in to the god now. 
Mery-reporte. No, but ye know how he may passe into you. 770 
Gentylwoman. I pray you let me in at the backe syde. 
Mery-reporte. Ye, shall I so, and your fore syde so wyde ? C iv 

Nay not yet j but syns ye love to be alone, 

We twayne will into a corner anone. 

But fyrste, I pray you, come your way hyther, 775 

And let us twayne chat a whyle to-gyther. 
Gentylwoman. Syr, as to you I have lyttell mater. 

My commynge is to speke wyth Jupiter. 
Mery-reporte. Stande ye styll a whyle, and I wyll go prove 

Whether that the god wyll be brought in love. 780 

My lorde, how nowe ! loke uppe lustely ! 

Here is a derlynge come, by saynt Antony. 

And yf yt be your pleasure to mary, 

Speke quyckly j for she may not tary. 



II 



The Play of the Wether 45 

In fayth, I thynke ye may wynne her anone j 785 

For she wolde speke with your lordshyp alone. 
Jupyter. Sonne, that is not the thynge at this tyme ment. 

If her sewt concerne no cause of our hyther resorte, 

Sende her out of place; but yf she be bent 

To that purpose, heare her and make us reporte. 790 

Mery-reporte. I count women lost, yf we love them not well, 

For ye se god loveth them never a dele. 

Maystres ye can not speake wyth the god. 
Gentylwoman. No ! why ? 
Mery-reporte. By my fayth, for his lordship is ryght besy. 

Wyth a pece of worke that nedes must be doone ; 795 

Even now is he makyng of a new moone. 

He sayth your olde moones be so farre tasted,^ 

That all the goodnes of them is wasted, 

Whyche of the great wete hath ben moste mater 

For olde moones be leake \ 2 they can holde no water. 800 

But for this new mone, I durst lay my gowne, 

Except a few droppes at her goyng downe, 

Ye get no rayne tyll her arysynge, 

Wythout yt nede, and then no mans devysynge 

Coulde wyshe the fashyon of rayne to be so good ; 805 

Not gushynge out lyke gutters of Noyes flood. 

But small droppes sprynklyng softly on the grounde; 

Though they fell on a sponge they wold gyve no sounde. 

This new moone shall make a thing spryng more in this 
while 

Then a olde moone shal while a man may go a mile. 810 

By that tyme the god hath all made an ende, C iv ^ 

Ye shall se how the wether wyll amende. 

By saynt Anne, he goeth to worke even boldely. 

I thynke hym wyse ynough ; for he loketh oldely ! 

Wherfore, maystres, be ye now of good cherej 815 

For though in his presens ye can not appere, 

Tell me your mater and let me alone. 

Mayhappe I will thynke on you when you be gone. 

^ decayed. 2 be leaky ; misprinted belyke by Kitson. 



46 The Play of the Wether 

Gentylwoman. Forsoth, the cause of my commynge is this : 

I am a woman right fayre, as ye se; 820 

In no creature more beauty then in me is ; 

And, syns I am fayre, fayre wolde I kepe me, 

But the Sonne in somer so sore doth burne me, 

In wynter the wynde on every side me. 

No parte of the yere wote I where to turne me, 825 

But even in my house am I fayne to hyde me. 

And so do all other that beuty have ; 

In whose name at this tyme, this sewt I make, 

Besechynge Jupyter to graunt that I crave ; 

Whyche is this, that yt may please hym, for our sake, 830 

To sende us wether close and temperate, 

No sonne-shyne, no frost, nor no wynde to blow. 

Then wolde we get^ the stretes trym as a parate.^ 

Ye shold se how we wolde set our-selfe to show. 
Mery-reporte. Jet where ye wyll, I swere by saynt Quintyne, 835 

Ye passe them all, both in your owne conceyt and myne. 
Gentylwoman. If we had wether to walke at our pleasure, 

Our lyves wolde be mery out of measure. 

One part of the day for our apparellynge 

Another parte for eatynge and drynkynge, 840 

And all the reste in stretes to be walkynge, 

Or in the house to passe tyme with talkynge. 
Mery-reporte, When serve ye God ? 
Gentylwoman. Who bosteth in vertue are but dawes ^ 
Mery-reporte. Ye do the better, namely syns there is no cause. 

How spende ye the nyght ? 
Gentylwoman. In daunsynge and syngynge 845 

Tyll mydnyght, and then fall to slepynge. 
Mery-reporte. Why, swete herte, by your false fayth, can ye syng ? 
Gentylwoman. Nay, nay, but I love yt above all thynge. 
Mery-reporte. Now, by my trouth, for the love that I owe you, D i 

You shall here what pleasure I can shew you. 850 

One songe have I for you, suche as yt is. 

And yf yt were better ye should have yt, by gys.* 

1 ox ]et (1. 835), strut. 2 parrot. ^ simpletons. * Jesus. 



The Play of the VTether 47 

Gentylwoman. Mary, syr, I thanke you even hartely. 
Mery-reporte. Come on, syrs ; but now let us synge lust [e] ly. 

Here they singe. 

Gentylwoman. Syr, this is well done ; I hertely thanke you. 855 

Ye have done me pleasure, I make God avowe. 

Ones in a nyght I long for suche a fyt ; 

For longe tyme have I bene brought up in yt. 
Mery-reporte. Oft tyme yt is sene, both in court and towne, 

Longe be women a bryngyng up & sone brought downe. 860 

So fet 1 yt is, so nete yt is, so nyse yt is. 

So trycke^ yt is, so quycke yt is, so wyse yt is. 

I fere my self, excepte I may entreat her, 

I am so farre in love I shall forget her. 

Now, good maystres, I pray you, let me kys ye — 865 

Gentylwoman. Kys me, quoth a ! Why, nay, syr, I wys ye. 
Mery-reporte. What ! yes, hardely ! Kys me ons and no more. 

I never desyred to kys you before. 

Here the Launder cometh in. 

Launder. Why ! have ye alway kyst her behynde ? 

In fayth, good inough, yf yt be your mynde. 870 

And yf your appetyte serve you so to do, 

Byr lady, I wolde ye had kyst myne ars to ! 
Mery-reporte. To whom dost thou speake, foule hore ? canst thou tell ? 
Launder. Nay, by my trouth ! I, syr, not very well ! 

But by conjecture this ges^ I have, 875 

That I do speke to an olde baudy knave. 

I saw you dally with your symper de cokket* 

I rede you beware she pyck not your pokket. 

Such ydyll huswyfes do now and than 

Thynke all well wonne that they pyck from a man. 880 

Yet such of some men shall have more favour. 

Then we, that for them dayly toyle and labour. 

But I trust the god wyll be so indyfferent 

That she shall fayle some parte of her entent. 

1 trim. 2 smart. ^ guess. * Mile. Simper de Coquette. 



48 The Play of the Wether 

Mery-reporte, No dout he wyll deale so gracyously 885 

That all folke shall be served indyfterently. 

How be yt, I tell the trewth, my ofFyce is suche D i b 

That I muste reporte eche sewt, lyttell or muche. 

Wherfore, wyth the god syns thou canst not speke, 

Trust me wyth thy sewt, I wyll not fayle yt to breke.^ 890 
Launder. Then leave not to muche to yonder gyglet.^ 

For her desyre contrary to myne is set. 

I herde by her tale she wolde banyshe the Sonne, 

And then were we pore launders all undonne. 

Excepte the sonne shyne that our clothes may dry, 895 

We can do ryght nought in our laundrye. 

An other maner losse, yf we sholde mys, 

Then of suche nycebyceters ^ as she is. 
Gentylwoman. I thynke yt better that thou envy me, 

Then I sholde stande at rewarded of thy pytte. 900 

It is the guyse of such grose quenes as thou art 

With such as I am evermore to thwart. 

By cause that no beauty ye can obtayne 

Therfore ye have us that be fayre in dysdayne. 
Launder. When I was as yonge as thou art now, 905 

I was wythin lyttel as fayre as thou, 

And so myght have kept me, yf I hadde wolde. 

And as derely my youth I myght have solde 

As the tryckest and fayrest of you all. 

But I feared parels ^ that after myght fall, 910 

Wherfore some busynes I dyd me provyde. 

Lest vyce myght enter on every syde, 

Whyche hath fre entre where ydelnesse doth reyne. 

It is not thy beauty that I dysdeyne. 

But thyne ydyll lyfe that thou hast rehersed, 915 

Whych any good womans hert wolde have perced. 

For I perceyve in daunsynge and syngynge, 

* communicate. ^ wanton. 

* Cf. note on Roister Doister, I. iv. 12. Merygreeke : "But with whome is he nowe so 
saaiy rounoyng yona r '" Dougt.-tie : "With Nobs nicebecetur miserere fonde." Explained by 
Fliigel as a contraction of Nescio quid dicitur = Mistress ' What's-her-name. ' Gen. Ed. 

* At regard, i.e. as the object of. ^ perils. 



I 



The Play of the Wether 49 

In eatyng and drynkynge and thyne apparellynge, 

Is all the joye, wherin thy herte is set. 

But nought of all this doth thyne owne labour get; 920 

For, haddest thou nothyng but of thyne owne travayle, 

Thou myghtest go as naked as my nayle. 

Me thynke thou shuldest abhorre suche ydylnes 

And passe thy tyme in some honest besynes ; 

Better to lese some parte of thy beaute, 925 

Then so ofte to jeoberd all thyne honeste. 

But I thynke, rather then thou woldest so do, Dii 

Thou haddest lever have us lyve ydylly to. 

And so, no doute, w^e shulde, yf thou myghtest have 

The clere sone banysht, as thou dost crave: . 930 

Then w^ere we launders marde and unto the 

Thyne owne request were smale commodyte. 

For of these twayne I thynke yt farre better 

Thy face were sone-burned, and thy clothis the swetter,i 

Then that' the sonne from shynynge sholde be smytten, 935 

To kepe thy face fayre and thy smocke beshytten. 

Syr, howe lycke ye my reason in her case ? 
Mery-reporte. Such a raylynge hore, by the holy mas, 

I never herde, in all my lyfe, tyll now. 

In dede I love ryght well the ton of you, 940 

But, or I wolde kepe you both, by goddes mother, 

The devyll shall have the tone to fet 2 the tother. 
Launder. Promyse me to speke that the sone may shyne bryght, 

And. I wyll be gone quyckly for all nyght. 
Mery-reporte. Get you both hens, I pray you hartely ; 945 

Your sewtes I perceyve and wyll reporte them trewly 

Unto Jupyter, at the next leysure. 

And in the same desyre, to know his pleasure ; 

Whyche knowledge hadde, even as he doth show yt, 

Feare ye not, tyme enough, ye shall know it. 950 

Gentylwoman. Syr, yf ye medyll, remember me fyrste. 
Launder. Then in this medlynge my parte shal be the wurst. 
Mery-reporte. Now, I beseche our lorde, the devyll the^ burst. 

1 sweeter. ^ fetch. ^ thee. 



50 The Play of the Wether 

Who medlyth wyth many I hold hym accurst, 

Thou hore, can I medyl wyth you both at ones. 955 

Here the Gentylwoman goth forth. 

Launder. By the mas, knave, I wold I had both thy stones 

In my purs, yf thou medyl not indyfFerently, 

That both our maters in yssew may be lyckly. 
Mery-reporte. Many wordes, lyttell mater, and to no purpose, 

Suche is the effect that thou dost dysclose, 960 

The more ye byb ^ the more ye babyll. 

The more ye babyll the more ye fabyll. 

The more ye fabyll the more unstabyll, 

The more unstabyll the more unabyll. 

In any maner thynge to do any good. 965 

No hurt though ye were hanged, by the holy rood ! D ii ^ 

Launder. The les your sylence, the lesse your credence, 

The les your credens the les your honeste. 

The les your honeste the les your assystens. 

The les your assystens the les abylyte 970 

In you to do ought. Wherfore, so god me save. 

No hurte in hangynge such a raylynge knave. 
Mery-reporte. What monster is this ? I never harde none suche. 

For loke how myche more I have made her to myche. 

And so farre, at lest, she hath made me to lyttell. 975 

Wher be ye Launder ? I thynke in some spytell.^ 

Ye shall washe me no gere, for feare of fretynge^ 

I love no launders that shrynke my gere in wettynge, 

I praye the go hens, and let me be in rest. 

I wyll do thyne erand as I thynke best. 980 

Launder. Now wolde I take my leve, yf I wyste how. 

The lenger I lyve the more knave you. 
Mery-reporte. The lenger thou lyvest the pyte the gretter, 

The soner thou be ryd the tydynges the better ! 

Is not this a swete offyce that I have, 985 

When every drab shall prove me a knave ? 

1 In The Play of Love ^ Hey wood writes of " bybbyll babbyll, dytter clatter." 

2 hospital, lazar-house. 8 rubbing. 



I 



i 



The Play of the Wether 51 

Every man knoweth not what goddes servyce is, 

Nor I my selfe knewe yt not before this. 

I thynke goddes servauntes may lyve holyly. 

But the devyls servauntes lyve more meryly. 990 

I know not what god geveth in standynge fees, 

But the devyls servaunts have casweltees ^ 

A hundred tymes mo then goddes servauntes have. 

For, though ye be never so starke a knave. 

If ye lacke money the devyll wyll do no wurse 995 

But brynge you strayght to a-nother mans purse. 

Then wyll the devyll promote you here in this world. 

As unto suche ryche yt doth moste accord. 

Fyrste pater noster qui es in celis^ 

And then ye shall sens 2 the shryfe wyth your helys. 1000 

The greatest frende ye have in felde or towne, 

Standynge a-typ-to, shall not reche your crowne. 

The Boy cometh in, the lest that can play. 

Boy. This same is even he, by al lycklyhod. 
Syr, I pray you, be not you master god ? 

Mery-reporte. No, in good fayth, sonne. But I may say to the 

I am suche a man that god may not mysse me. D iii 1006 
Wherfore with the god yi thou wouldest have ought done 
Tell me thy mynde, and I shall shew yt sone. 

Boy, Forsothe, syr, my mynde is thys, at few wordes. 

All my pleasure is in catchynge of byrdes, 10 10 

And makynge of snow-ballys and throwyng the same ; 

For the whyche purpose to have set in frame,^ 

Wyth my godfather god I wolde fayne have spoken, 

Desyrynge hym to have sent me by some token 

Where I myghte have had great frost for my pytfallys, 10 15 

And plente of snow to make my snow-ballys. 

This onys^ had, boyes lyvis be such as no man leddys. 

O, to se my snow ballys lyght on my felowes heddys, 

1 casualties, chance perquisites. 

2 swing to and fro with your heels before the sheriff, as a censer is swung by a thurifer. 
* made arrangements. * once. 



52 The Play of the Wether 

And to here the byrdes how they flycker theyr wynges 

In the pytfale ! I say yt passeth all thynges. 1020 

Syr, yf ye be goddes servaunt, or his kynsman, 

I pray you helpe me in this yf ye can. 
Mery-reporte. Alas, pore boy, who sent the hether? 
-^Boy. A hundred boys that stode to-gether, 

Where they herde one say in a cry 1025 

That my godfather, god almighty, 

Was come from heven, by his owne accorde, 

This nyght to suppe here wyth my lorde,i 

And farther he sayde, come whos [o] ^ wull, 

They shall sure have theyr bellyes full 1030 

Of all wethers who lyste to crave, 

Eche sorte suche wether as they lyste to have. 

And when my felowes thought this wolde be had, 

And saw me so prety a pratelynge lad, 

Uppon agrement, wyth a great noys, 1035 

" Sende lyttell Dycke," cryed al the boys. 

By whose assent I am purveyd^ 

To sew for the wether afore seyd. J 

Wherin I pray you to be good, as thus, ■ 

To helpe that god may geve yt us. IO40 

Mery-reporte. Gyve boyes wether, quoth a ! nonny,* nonny ! 
Boy. Yf god of his wether wyll gyve nonny, 

I pray you, wyll he sell ony ? 

Or lend us a bushell of snow, or twayne, 

And poynt us a day to pay hym agayne ? 1045 

Mery-reporte. I can not tell, for, by thys light, D Hi b 

I chept ^ not, nor borowed, none of hym this night. 

But by suche shyfte as I wyll make 

Thou shake se soone what waye he wyll take. 

1 Cardinal Wolsey suggests himself as the person most likely to be thus referred to, but if the 
reference of 1. 636 is to the excessive rain of 1527-28, Wolsey's disgrace followed it rather 
too closely for the phrase *' within this seven yere." 

2 Rastell ed., 'whose.' 

3 provided. 

* Usually a mere exclamation, but here apparently as if from non^ not. 
^ bargained for. 



J 

I 



I 



The Play of the Wether 53 

Boy. Syr, I thanke you. Then I may departe. 1050 

The ^OY goth forth, 

Mery-reporte. Ye, fare well, good sonne, wyth all my harte, 
Now suche an other sorte^ as here hath bene 
In all the dayes of my lyfe I have not sene. 
No sewters now but women, knavys, and boys, 
And all theyr sewtys are in fansyes and toys. < 1055 

Yf that there come no wyser after thys cry 
I wyll to the god and make an ende quyckely. 
Oyes,2 yf that any knave here 
Be wyllynge to appere. 

For wether fowle or clere, 1060 

Come in before thys flocke 
And be he hole or syckly, 
Come, shew hys mynde quyckly. 
And yf hys tale be not lyckly ^ 

Ye shall lycke my tayle in the nocke. 1065 

All thys tyme I perceyve is spent in wast, 
To wayte for mo sewters I se none make hast, 
Wherfore I wyll shew the god all thys procys 
And be delyvered of my symple^ ofFys. 

Now, lorde, accordynge to your commaundement, 1 070 

Attendynge sewters I have ben dylygent, 
And, at begynnyng as your wyll was I sholde, 
I come now at ende to shewe what eche man wolde. 
The fyrst sewter before your selfe dyd appere, 
A gentylman desyrynge wether clere, 1075 

Clowdy nor mysty, nor no wynde to blowe. 
For hurte in hys huntynge ; and then, as ye know, 
The marchaunt sewde, for all of that kynde. 
For wether clere and mesurable wynde 

As they maye best here theyr saylys to make spede. 1 080 

And streyght after thys there came to me, in dede. 
An other man who namyd hym-selfe a ranger. 
And sayd all of hys crafte be farre brought in daunger, 

1 assemblage. 2 oyez, hearken. * likely. * foolish. 



54 The Play of the Wether 

For lacke of lyvynge, whyche chefely ys wynde-fall. 

But he playnely sayth there bloweth no wynde at al, D iv 1085 

Wherfore he desyreth, for encrease of theyr fleesys,^ 

Extreme rage of wynde, trees to tere in peces. 

Then came a water-myller and he cryed out 

For water and sayde the wynde was so stout 

The rayne could not fale, wherfore he made request 1 090 

For plenty of rayne, to set the wynde at rest. 

And then, syr, there came a wynde myller in. 

Who sayde for the rayne he could no wynde wyn, 

The water he wysht to be banysht all, 

Besechynge your grace of wynde contynuall. 1095 

Then came there an other that wolde banysh all this 

A goodly dame, an ydyll thynge iwys. 

Wynde, rayne, nor froste, nor sonshyne, wold she have, 

But fayre close wether, her beautye to save. 

Then came there a-nother that lyveth by laundry, 11 00 

Who muste have wether hote & clere here clothys to dry. 

Then came there a boy for froste and snow contynuall. 

Snow to make snow ballys and frost for his pytfale, J| 



For whyche, god wote, he seweth full gredely. 

Your fyrst man wold have wether clere and not wyndy ; 1105 

The seconde the same, save cooles ^ to blow meanly ; 

The thyrd desyred stormes and wynde moste extremely ; 

The fourth all in water and wolde have no wynde ; 

The fyft no water, but al wynde to grynde ; 

The syxt wold have none of all these, nor no bright son ; mo 

The seventh extremely the hote son wold have wonne ; 

The eyght, and the last, for frost & snow he prayd. 

Byr lady, we shall take shame, I am a-frayd ! 

Who marketh in what maner this sort is led 

May thynke yt impossyble all to be sped. mS 

This nomber is smale, there lacketh twayne of ten, 

And yet, by the masse, amonge ten thousand men 

No one thynge could stande more wyde from the tother; 

Not one of theyr sewtes agreeth wyth an other. 

1 plunder. 2 cf, j, ^^q, " meane cooles.** 



1 



I 



The Play of the Wether 55 

I promyse you, here is a shrewed pece of warke. 1120 

This gere wyll trye wether ye be a clarke. 

Yf ye trust to me, yt is a great foly ; 

For yt passeth my braynes, by goddes body ! 
yupyter. Son, thou haste ben dylygent and done so well, 

That thy labour is ryght myche thanke-worthy. D iv ^ 11 25 

But be thou suer we nede no whyt thy counsell. 

For in ourselfe we have foresene remedy, 

Whyche thou shalt se. But, fyrste, departe hence quyckly 

To the gentylman and all other sewters here 

And commaunde them all before us to appere. 1130 

Mery-reporte. That shall be no longer in doynge 

Then I am in commynge and goynge. 

Mery-reporte goth out. 

yupyter. Suche debate as from above ye have herde, 
Suche debate beneth amonge your selfes ye se ; 
As longe as heddes from temperaunce be deferd, 1 1 35 

So longe the bodyes in dystemperaunce be. 
This perceyve ye all, but none can helpe save we. 
But as we there have made peace concordantly, 
So woll we here now gyve you remedy. 

Mery-reporte and al the sewters entreth, 

Mery-reporte. If I hadde caught them 1 140 

Or ever I raught ^ them, 

I wolde have taught them 

To be nere me ; 

Full dere have I bought them, 

Lorde, so I sought them, 1^45 

Yet have I brought them, 

Suche as they be. 
Gentylman. Pleaseth yt your majeste, lorde, so yt is, 

We, as your subjectes and humble sewters all, 

Accordynge as we here your pleasure is, 1 1 50 

Are presyd^ to your presens, beynge principall 

1 reached. 2 pressed, have hastened. 



56 



The Play of the Whether 



Hed and governour of all in every place, 
Who joyeth not in your syght, no joy can have. 
Wherfore we all commyt us to your grace 
As lorde of lordes us to peryshe or save. 
Jupyter. As longe as dyscrecyon so well doth you gyde 
Obedyently to use your dewte, 
Dout ye not we shall your savete provyde, 
Your grevys we have harde, wherfore we sent for ye 
To receyve answere, eche man in his degre, 
And fyrst to content most reason yt is, 
The fyrste man that sewde, wherfore marke ye this, 



I155 



1160 



Oft shall ye have the wether clere and styll 

To hunt in for recompens of your payne. D v 

Also you marchauntes shall have myche your wyll. 1165 

For oft-tymes, when no wynde on lande doth remayne, 

Yet on the see pleasaunt cooles you shall obtayne. 

And syns your huntynge maye rest in the nyght, 

Oft shall the wynde then ryse, and before daylyght 

It shall ratyll downe the wood, in suche case 11 70 

That all ye rangers the better lyve may ; 

And ye water-myllers shall obtayne this grace 

Many tymes the rayne to fall in the valey. 

When at the selfe tymes on hyllys we shall purvey 

Fayre wether for your wyndmilles, with such coolys of 

wynde 
As in one instant both kyndes of mylles may grynde. 11 76 

And for ye fayre women, that close wether wold have. 

We shall provyde that ye may suflycyently 

Have tyme to walke in, and your beauty save ; 

And yet shall ye have, that lyveth by laundry, 1 180 

The bote sonne oft ynough your clothes to dry. 

Also ye, praty chylde, shall have both frost and snow, 

Now marke this conclusyon, we charge you arow.^ 



1 in order. 



The Play of the Whether 57 

Myche better have we now devysed for ye all 

Then ye all can perceve, or coude desyre. 1 185 

Eche of you sewd to have contynuall 

Suche wether as his crafte onely doth requyre, 

All wethers in all places yf men all tymes myght hyer, 

Who could lyve by other ? what is this neglygens 

Us to atempt in suche inconvenyens. II90 

Now, on the tother syde, yf we had graunted 

The full of some one sewt and no mo, 

And from all the rest the wether had forbyd, 

Yet who so hadde obtayned had wonne his owne wo. 

There is no one craft can preserve man so, II95 

But by other craftes, of necessyte. 

He muste have myche parte of his commodyte. 

All to serve at ones and one destroy a nother, D v * 

Or ellys to serve one and destroy all the rest, 

Nother wyll we do the tone nor the tother 1200 

But serve as many, or as few, as we thynke best ; 

And where, or what tyme, to serve moste or leste, 

The dyreccyon of that doutles shall stande 

Perpetually in the power of our hande. 

Wherfore we wyll the hole worlde to attende 1 205 

Eche sorte on suche wether as for them doth fall, 

Now one, now other, as lyketh us to sende. 

Who that hath yt, ply ^ it, and suer we shall 

So gyde the wether in course to you all. 

That eche wyth other ye shall hole^ remayne 1 2 10 

In pleasure and plentyfull welth, certayne. 

Gentylman. Blessed was the tyme wherin we were borne, 
Fyrst for the blysfull chaunce of your godly presens. 
Next for our sewt was there never man beforne 
That ever harde so excellent a sentens 1215 

1 use. 2 whole. 



58 The Play of the Wether 

As your grace hath gevyn to us all arow, 

Wherin your hyghnes hath so bountyfully 

Dystrybuted my parte that your grace shall know, 

Your selfe sooll ^ possessed of hertes of all chy valry. 
Marchaunt. Lyke-wyse we marchauntes shall yeld us holy ,2 1220 

Onely to laude the name of Jupyter 

As god of all goddes, you to serve soolly ; 

For of every thynge, I se, you are norysher. 
Ranger. No dout yt is so, for so we now fynde ; 

Wherin your grace us rangers so doth bynde, 1225 

That we shall gyve you our hertes with one accorde. 

For knowledge to know you as our onely lorde. 
Water Myller. Well, I can no more, but " for our water 

We shall geve your lordshyp our ladyes sauter." 
Wynde Myller, Myche have ye bounde us ; for, as I be saved. 

We have all obteyned better then we craved. 1231 

Gentylwoman. That is trew, wherfore your grace shal trewly 

The hertes of such as I am have surely. 
Launder. And suche as I am, who be as good as you. 

His hyghness shall be suer on, I make a vow. ^ 1235 

Boy. Godfather god, I wyll do somewhat for you agayne. D vi 

By Cryste, ye maye happe to have a byrd or twayne. 

And I promyse you, yf any snow come. 

When I make my snow ballys ye shall have some. 
Mery-reporte. God thanke your lordshyp. Lo, how this is brought 
to pas! 1240 

Syr, now shall ye have the wether even as yt was. 

Jupyter. We nede no whyte our selfe any farther to host, 
For our dedes declare us apparauntly. 
Not onely here on yerth, in every cost. 

But also above in the hevynly company, 1245 

Our prudens hath made peace unyversally, 
Whyche thynge we sey, recordeth us as pryncypall 
God and governour of heven, yerth, and all. 

1 solely. 2 wholly. » St. John's copy end*. 



The Play of the Wether 59 

Now unto that heven we woll make retourne, 

When we be gloryfyed most tryumphantly, 1250 

Also we woll all ye that on yerth sojourne, 

Syns cause gyveth cause to knowe us your lord onely, 

And nowe here to synge moste joyfully, 

Rejoycynge in us, and in meane tyme we shall 

Ascende into our trone celestyall. 1255 



Finis. 



Printed by W. Rastell. 

1533- 
Cum pri-vilegio. 



JOHAN JOHAN 

Previous Editions and the Present Text. — An edition of " A Mery 
Play between Johan Johan, the Husbande, Tyb, his Wyfe and Syr 
Jhan, the Freest, attributed to John Heywood 1533,"-^ was printed 
at the Chiswick Press by C[harles] Whittingham " from an unique 
copy in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford," some time in the first 
half of the present century .^ The anonymous editor prefaces it 
with the following brief " advertisement " : — 

** This is one of the six Plays attributed by our dramatic biographers to 
John Heywood, author of The Four P^ s (contained in Dodsley's collection), 
of 'the Spider and Flie,' and of some other poems, an account of which 
may be found in the Third Volume of Warton's History of English Poetry. 
No copy of this Mery Play appears to exist, except that in the Ashmolean 
Museum at Oxford, from which this is a faithful reprint. Exclusive of its 
antiquity and rarity, it is valuable as affording a specimen of the earliest and 
rudest form of our Comedy (for the Poem is shorter, & the number of the 
Dramatis Personas yet fewer than those of the Four P^s) & of the liberty 
with which even the Roman Catholic authors of that age felt themselves 
authorized to treat the estabhshed priesthood." 

The Ashmolean copy (now in the Bodleian Library) can no longer 
be reckoned unique, another copy having been discovered in the 
Pepys collection at Magdalene College, Cambridge. This copy has 
been used in correcting the Chiswick Press text, and it may be as 
well to mention that the following changes, besides a good many 
minor ones, have been made on its authority, and are not surrepti- 
tious emendations of the present editor. 

1 See Critical Essay, pp. lo, 14. 

2 My own copy has beneath the initials of a former owner the date " March 22, 1833 " ; 
that in the British Museum is assigned to 1830. I have seen it stated, but I know not on 
what authority, that the book appeared in 1819. 

61 



62 



Johan yohan 



1. 4, myche for muche ; 1. 27, Whan for Whyn ; 1. 31, /i'w;^^ for /«;^^,- 
1. 89, enrage ^or engage ; 1. 94, But ^or Thou ; 1. 121, thou ^ox you; 1. 129, 
/y/f for j);/f/ 1. 132, /^ go for ^(?,- 1. I'l'] , fare {ox face ; 1. 305, z^^;r^ for 
2c^r^,- 1. 335, for I for /,• 1. 47 1, 2^ for /<?,• 1. 497, mych for much ; 
1. 540, beyond for beand ; 1. 542, /? i'^f'j; for ^^«/_y,- 1. 552, beyond for ^^- 
)?tf;7^y 1. 581, 1/ for ix ; 1. 604, / /2;w for am /. 

In the apportionment of 11. 240-266 between the two speakers, 
my predecessor, like myself, though not in the same manner, has 
departed from Rastell's (clearly erroneous) arrangement of the 
speeches, but his dislike of footnotes has caused him to omit any 
mention of the fact. The title-page is a representation, not 2i fac- 
simile. There is no running head-line in the original. 

Alfred W. Pollard. 



I 




33ettoene Soljan SoJjan tlje 

Jjufbantre/ STglj W 

togfe/ & fgr 3pn 



A Mery Play, 

betwene 

JoHAN JoHAN, the husbatide, Tyb, his wyfe^ 

8c 

Syr J HAN, the preest 



JoHAN JoHAN, the Husbaude, 

God spede you, maysters, everychone, 

Wote ye not whyther my wyfe is gone ? 

I pray God the dyvell take her, 

For all that I do I can not make her, 

But she wyll go a gaddynge very myche 5 

Lyke an Antony pyg ^ with an olde wyche, 

Whiche ledeth her about hyther and thyther ; 

But, by our lady, I wote not whyther. 

But, by goggis^ blod, were she come home 

Unto this my house, by our lady of Crome,^ 10 

I wolde bete her or that I drynke. 

Bete her, quotha ? yea, that she shall stynke ! 

And at every stroke lay her on the grounde. 

And trayne * her by the here ^ about the house rounde. 

I am evyn mad that I bete her not nowe, 15 

But I shall rewarde her, hard [e] ly,^ well ynowe ; 

1 The Neiv Eng. Diet, quotes from Fuller's Worthier: <' St. Anthonie is notoriously known 
for the patron of hogs, having a pig for his page in all pictures." ^ God's. 

^ There are three Croomes in the manor of Ripple, Worcestershire, and the church of 
Ripple is dedicated to the B. Virgin, but Nash's History of Worcestershire says nothing of "Our 
Lady of Crome. ' ' * drag. ^ hair. ^ assuredly ; text * hardly. ' 

65 



66 Johan yohan 

There Is never a wyfe betwene heven and hell 
Whiche was ever beten halfe so well. 

Beten, quotha ? yea, but what and she therof dye ? 
Then I may chaunce to be hanged shortly. 20 

And whan I have beten her tyll she smoke, 
And gyven her many a c.-^ stroke, 
Thynke ye that she wyll amende yet ? 
Nay, by our lady, the devyll spede whyt ! ^ 
Therfore I wyll not bete her at all. 25 

And shall I not bete her ? no shall ? ^ 
Whan she ofFendeth and doth a-mys, A i b 

And kepeth not her house, as her duetie is .? 
Shall I not bete her, if she do so ? 

Yes, by cokkis * blood, that shall I do ; 30 

I shall bete her and thwak her, I trow. 
That she shall beshyte the house for very wo. 

But yet I thynk what my neybour wyll say than. 
He wyll say thus : " Whom chydest thou, Johan Johan ? " 
" Mary," will I say ! " I chyde my curst wyfe, 35 

The veryest drab that ever bare lyfe, 
Whiche doth nothying but go and come. 
And I can not make her kepe her at home." 
Than I thynke he wyll say by and by,^ 

" Walke her cote,^ Johan Johan, and bete her hardely." 40 
But than unto hym myn answere shal be, 
" The more I bete her the worse is she : 
And wors and wors make her I shall." 

He wyll say than, " bete her not at all." 
" And why ? " shall I say, " this wolde be wyst,^ 45 

Is she not myne to chastice as I lyst ? " 

But this is another poynt worst of all. 
The folkis wyll mocke me whan they here me brail ; ^ 

1 hundred. 2 the devil a bit. 

8 shall I not ? For this curious elliptical construction cf. 1. 624, *' And had ye no meate, 
Johan Johan .? no had?" See also Udall's R. D., I. iv. 32. 

* God's. ^ 5 immediately. 

^ dust her jacket, beat her. To walk = to full cloth. 

'' This (question must be answered. 8 scold. 



« 



yohan yohan 67 

But for all that, shall I let ^ therfore 

To chastyce my wyfe ever the more, 50 

And to make her at home for to tary ? 

Is not that well done ? yes, by Saynt Mary, 

That is a poynt^ of an honest man 

For to bete his wyfe well nowe and than. 

Therfore I shall bete her, have ye no drede ! 55 

And I ought to bete her, tyll she be starke dede. 
And why ? by God, bicause it is my pleasure. 
And if I shulde sufFre her, I make you sure. 
Nought shulde prevayle ^ me, nother stafFe nor waster,* 
Within a whyle she wolde be my mayster. 60 

Therfore I shall bete her by cokkes mother. 
Both on the tone syde and on the tother. 
Before and behynde ; nought shall be her bote,^ 
From the top of the heed to the sole of the fote. 

But, masters, for Goddis sake, do not entrete 65 

For her, whan that she shal be bete ; 
But, for Goddis passion, let me alone. 
And I shall thwak her that she shall grone : 
Wherfore I beseche you, and hartely you pray, 
And I beseche you say me not nay, 70 

But that I may beate her for this ones ; A ii 

And I shall beate her, by cokkes bones, 
That she shall stynke lyke a pole-kat; 
But yet, by goggis body, that nede nat. 

For she wyll stynke without any betyng, 75 

For every nyght ones she gyveth me an hetyng; 
From her issueth suche a stynkyng smoke. 
That the savour therof almost doth me choke. 
But I shall bete her nowe, without fayle ; 

I shall bete her toppe and tayle, 80 

Heed, shulders, armes, legges, and all, 
I shall bete her, I trowe that I shall ; 
And, by goggis boddy, I tell you trewe, 
I shall bete her tyll she be blacke and blewe. 

1 cease, '^ characteristic. 3 avail. * cudgel. ^ remedy. 



68 yohan yohan 

But where the dyvell trowe ye she is gon ? 85 

I holde a noble ^ she is with Syr Jhan ; ■ 

I fere I am begyled alway, M 

But yet in faith I hope well nay ; f 

Yet I almost enrage that I ne can 

Se the behavour of our gentylwoman. 9*^ 

And yet, I thynke, thyther as she doth go . 
Many an honest wyfe goth thyther also, 
For to make some pastyme and sporte. 
But than my wyfe so ofte doth thyther resorte 
That I fere she wyll make me weare a fether. 95 

But yet I nede not for to fere nether. 
For he is her gossyp, that is he. 

But abyde a whyle, yet let me se, 
Where the dyvell hath our gyssypry ^ begon ? 
My wyfe had never chylde, daughter nor son. lOO 

Nowe if I forbede her that she go no more, 
Yet wyll she go as she dyd before. 
Or els wyll she chuse some other place j 
And then the matter is in as yll case. 

But in fayth all these wordes be in wast, 1 05 

For I thynke the matter is done and past ; 
And whan she cometh home she wyll begyn to chyde. 
But she shall have her payment styk by her syde ; 
For I shall order her, for all her brawlyng, 
That she shall repent to go a catter-wawlyng.^ IIO 

[Enter Tyb.] 

Tyb. Why, whom wylt thou beate, I say, thou knave ? 

Johan. Who, I, Tyb ? none, so God me save. 

Tyb, Yes, I harde the say thou woldest one bete. 

Johan. Mary, wyfe, it was stokfysshe * in Temmes Strete, 
Whiche wyll be good meate agaynst Lent. A ii b 

Why, Tyb, what haddest thou thought that I had ment ? 

1 wager 65. %d. Cf. Udall, R. £>., I. iii. 27. 

2 the relation of a child's sponsors at baptism to his parents. 3 go a <' love "-making. 
4 fish salted so hard that it had to be softened by beating before cooking. 



yohan yohan 69 

Tyb. Mary, me thought I harde the bawlyng. 

Wilt thou never leve this wawlyng ? ^ 

Howe the dyvell dost thou thy selfe behave ? 

Shall we ever have this worke, thou knave ? 1 20 

Johan. What ! wyfe, how sayst thou ? was it well gest of me 

That thou woldest be come home in safete, 

As sone as I had kendled a fyre ? 

Come warme the, swete Tyb, I the requyre. 
Tyb. O, Johan Johan, I am afrayd, by this lyght, 125 

That I shalbe sore syk this nyght. 
Johan [aside] . By cokkis soule, nowe, I dare lay a swan 

That she comes nowe streyght fro Syr Johan ; 

For ever whan she hath fatched of hym a lyk, 

Than she comes home, and sayth she is syk. 130 

Tyb. What sayst thou ? 
Johan. Mary, I say. 

It is mete for a woman to go play 

Abrode in the towne for an houre or two. 
Tyb. Well, gentylman, go to, go to. 

Johan. Well, let us have no more debate. 1 35 

Tyb [aside] . If he do not fyght, chyde, and rate, 

Braule and fare as one that were frantyke. 

There is nothyng that may hym lyke.^ 
Johan [aside] . If that the parysshe preest, Syr Jhan, 

Dyd not se her nowe and than. 

And gyve her absolution upon a bed. 

For wo and payne she wolde sone be deed. 
Tyb. For goddis sake, Johan Johan, do the not displease. 

Many a tyme I am yll at ease. 

What thynkest nowe, am not I somwhat syk ? 145 

Johan [aside] . Nowe wolde to God, and swete Saynt Dyryk,^ 

1 literally, cat-calling. 
> 2 Tyb's ' aside ' perhaps only means **if he is not scolding nothing can please him," i.e. he 
likes scolding better than anything else. But Tyb is at present half-afraid, and it is at least 
possible that she means "if I haven't set him scolding this time, no occasion for being angry 
will content him." 

^ This saint is not mentioned by the BoUandists ; the name may be a contraction for one of 
the four St. Theodorics. 



70 Johan Johan 

That thou warte in the water up to the throte. 

Or in a burnyng oven red hote, 

To se an I wolde pull the out. 
Tyb. Nowe, Johan Johan, to put the out of dout, I50 

Imagyn thou where that I was 

Before I came home. 
Johan. My percase,! 

Thou wast prayenge in the Churche of Poules 

Upon thy knees for all Chrysten soules. 
Tyb. Nay. 
Johan. Than if thou wast not so holy, 1 55 

Shewe me where thou wast, and make no lye ? 
Tyb. Truely, Johan Johan, we made a pye, 

I and my gossyp Margery, 

And our gossyp the preest, Syr Jhan, A iii 

And my neybours yongest doughter An ; 160 

The preest payde for the stuffe and the makyng, 

And Margery she payde for the bakyng. 
Johan. By cokkis lylly woundis,^ that same is she, 

That is the most bawde hens to Coventre. 
Tyb. What say you ? 
Johan. Mary, answere me to this : 1 65 

Is not Syr Johan a good man .? 
Tyb. Yes, that he is. 

Johan. Ha, Tyb, if I shulde not greve the, 

I have somewhat wherof I wolde meve the.^ 
Tyb. Well, husbande, nowe I do conject 

That thou hast me somewhat in suspect; 1 70 

But, by my soule, I never go to Syr Johan 

But I fynde hym lyke an holy man. 

For eyther he is sayenge his devotion. 

Or els he is goynge in processyon. 
Johan [aside]. Yea, rounde about the bed doth he go, 175 

You two together, and no mo ; 

And for to fynysshe the procession. 

He lepeth up and thou lyest downe. 

1 guess. 2 God's Utde wounds j cf. 1. 648. • consult, quration thee. 



yohan yohan 7 1 

Tyb. What sayst thou ? 

Johan. Mary, I say he doth well, 

For so ought a shepherde to do, as I harde tell, 1 80 

For the salvation of all his folde. 
Tyb. Johan Johan ! 

\Johan.'\ What is it that thou wolde? 

Fyb. By my soule I love thee too too,i 

And I shall tell the, or I further go. 

The pye that was made, I have it nowe here, 1 85 

And therwith I trust we shall make good chere. 
Johan. By kokkis body that is very happy. 
Tyb. But wotest who gave it ? 

Johan. What the dyvel rek I ? 

Tyb. By my fayth, and I shall say trewe, than 

The Dyvell take me, and it were not Syr Johan. 190 

Johan. O holde the peas, wyfe, and swere no more. 

But I beshrewe both your hartes therfore. 
Tyb. Yet peradventure, thou hast suspection 

Of that was never thought nor done. 
Johan. Tusshe, wife, let all suche matters be, 195 

I love thee well, though thou love not me : 

But this pye doth nowe catche harme. 

Let us set it upon the harth to warme. 
Tyb. Than let us eate it as fast as we can. 

But bycause Syr Jhan is so honest a man, 200 

I wolde that he shulde therof eate his part. 
Johan. That were reason, I thee ensure. 
Tyb, Than, syns that it is thy pleasure, 

I pray the than go to hym ryght, A iii b 

And pray hym come sup with us to nyght. 205 

Jhan [aside^ . Shall he cum hyther ? by kokkis soule I was a-curst 

Whan that I graunted to that worde furst ! 

But syns I have sayd it, I dare not say nay. 

For than my wyfe and 1 shulde make a fray ; 

But whan he is come, I swere by goddis mother, 210 

I wold gyve the dyvell the tone 2 to cary away the tother. 

1 excessively. 2 tj^g one. 



72 Johan Johan 

Tyb. What sayst ? 

Johan. Mary, he is my curate, I say, 

My confessour and my frende alway, 

Therfore go thou and seke hym by and by. 

And tyll thou come agayne, I wyll kepe the pye. 215 

Tyb. Shall I go for him ? nay, I shrewe me than ! 

Go thou, and seke, as fast as thou can, 

And tell hym it. 
Johan. Shall I do so ? 

In fayth, it is not mete for me to go. 
Tyb. .But thou shake go tell hym, for all that. 220 

Johan. Than shall I tell hym, wotest [thou] what ? 

That thou desyrest hym to come make some chere. 
Tyb. Nay, that thou desyrest hym to come sup here. 
Johan. Nay, by the rode, wyfe, thou shalt have the worshyp 

And the thankes of thy gest, that is thy gossyp. 225 

Tyb [aside] . Full ofte I se my husbande wyll me rate, 

For this hether commyng of our gentyll curate. 
Johan. What sayst, Tyb ? let me here that agayne. 
Tyb. Mary, I perceyve very playne 

That thou hast Syr Johan somwhat in suspect ; 230 

But by my soule, as far as I conject. 

He is vertuouse and full of charyte. 
Johan [aside] . In fayth, all the towne knoweth better, that he 

Is a hore-monger, a haunter of the stewes. 

An ypocrite, a knave, that all men refuse ; 235 

A Iyer, a wretche, a maker of stryfe. 

Better than they knowe that thou art my good wyfe. 
Tyb. What is that, that thou hast sayde ? 
Johan. Mary, I wolde have the table set and layde, 

In this place or that, I care not whether. 240 

Tyb. Than go to, brynge the trestels ^ hyther. 

Abyde^ a whyle, let me put of my gown! 

But yet I am afrayde to lay it down, 

1 The stands on which the ' board ' of the table was fixed when needed. 

2 This line is attributed in Rastell's edition to Johan, the next attribution being at 1. 252, also 
to Johan. Lines 258, 259 are given to Tyb, 11. 260-262 to Johan, 1. 263 a to Johan, 
11. 263 ^266 to Tyb. 



i 



I 



yohan yohan 73 

For I fere it shal be sone stolen. 
Johan.']^ And yet it may lye safe ynough unstolen. 245 

TybJ^ It may lye well here, and I lyst, — 

But, by cokkis soule, here hath a dogge pyst ; 

And if I shulde lay it on the harth bare, A iv 

It myght hap to be burned, or I were ware, 

Therfore I pray you,i take ye the payne 250 

To kepe my gowne tyll I come agayne. 
But yet he shall not have it, by my fay, 

He is so nere the dore, he myght ron away ; 

But bycause that ye be trusty and sure 

Ye shall kepe it, and it be your pleasure; 255 

And bycause it is arrayde 2 at the skyrt, 

Whyle ye do nothyng, skrape of the dyrt. 
[JohanJ] Lo, nowe am I redy to go to Syr Jhan, 

And byd hym come as fast as he can. 
[Ty^.] Ye, do so without ony taryeng. 260 

But I say, harke ! thou hast forgot one thyng; 

Set up the table, and that by and by.^ 

Nowe go thy ways. 
[yohan.~\ I go shortly ; * 

But se your candelstykkis be not out of the way. 
Tyh. Come agayn, and lay the table I say ; 265 

What ! me thynkkis, ye have sone don ! 
yohan. Nowe I pray God that his malediction 

Lyght on my wyfe, and on the baulde^ preest. 
Tyb. Nowe go thy ways and hye the ! seest ? 
yohan. I pray to Christ, if my wyshe be no synne, 270 

That the preest may breke his neck, whan he comes in. 
Tyb. Now cum again. 

yohan. What a myschefe wylt thou, fole ! 

Tyb. Mary, I say, brynge hether yender stole. 

1 *I pray you,' etc., said to one of the spectators, whom she next pretends to mistrust, turn- 
ing at 1. 254 to another one. 2 dirtied. 

3 Fix the board on the trestles, and that at once. 

* 263, etc. In the French Parse of Fernet qui 'va au vin there are similar false starts and 
returnings, but in that case Pernet keeps coming back to watch his wife and her lover. 

^ bald, shaven, not "bold." ' '• 



74 Johan Johan 

Johan. Nowe go to, a lyttell wolde make me 

For to say thus, a vengaunce take the ! 275 

Tyb. Nowe go to hym, and tell hym playn, 

That tyll thou brynge hym, thou wylt not come agayn. 
Johan. This pye doth borne here as it doth stande. 
*Tyb. Go, washe me these two cuppes in my hande. 
Johan, I go, with a myschyefe lyght on thy face ! 280 

Tyb. Go, and byd hym hye hym a pace. 

And the whyle I shall all thynges amende. 
Johan. This pye burneth here at this ende. 

Understandest thou ? 
Tyb. Go thy ways, I say. 

Johan. I wyll go nowe, as fast as I may. 285 

Tyb, How, come ones agayn e : I had forgot; 

Loke, and there be ony ale in the pot. 
Johan. Nowe a vengaunce and a very myschyefe 

Lyght on the pylde ^ preest, and on my wyfe. 

On the pot, the ale, and on the table, 290 

The candyll, the pye, and all the rable. 

On the trystels, and on the stole ; A iv 3 

It is moche ado to please a curst fole. 
Tyb. Go thy ways nowe, and tary no more. 

For I am a hungred very sore. 295 

Johan. Mary, I go. 
Tyb. But come ones agayne yet; 

Brynge hyther that breade, lest I forget it. 
Johan. I-wys it were tyme for to torne 

The pye, for y-wys it doth borne. 
Tyb, Lorde ! how my husbande nowe doth patter, 300 

And of the pye styl doth clatter. 

Go nowe, and byd hym come away ; 

I have byd the an hundred tymes to day. 
Johan. I wyll not gyve a strawe, I tell you playne. 

If that the pye waxe cold agayne. 305 

Tyb, What ! art thou not gone yet out of this place ? 

I had went,2 thou haddest ben come agayn in the space : 
1 shorn. 2 thought. 



I 



Johan yohan 75 

But, by cokkis soule, and I shulde do the ryght, 
I shulde breke thy knaves heed to nyght. 
Johan. Nay, than if my wyfe be set a chydyng, 310 

It is tyme for me to go at her byddyng. 
There is a proverbe, whiche trewe nowe preveth, 
He must nedes go that the dyvell dryveth. 

[^He goes to the Priest* s house."] 
How mayster curate, may I come in 
At your chamber dore, without ony syn. 315 

Syr Jhan the Freest, 

Who is there nowe that wolde have me ? 

What ! Johan Johan ! what newes with the ? 
Johan, Mary, Syr, to tell you shortly. 

My wyfe and I pray you hartely, 

And eke desyre you wyth all our myght, 320 

That ye wolde come and sup with us to nyght. 
Syr J. Ye must pardon me, in fayth I ne can. 
johan. Yes, I desyre you, good Syr Johan, 

Take payne this ones ; and, yet at the lest, 

If ye wyll do nought at my request, 325 

Yet do somewhat for the love of my wyfe. 
Syr J, I wyll not go, for makyng of stryfe. 

But I shall tell the what thou shake do. 

Thou shalt tary and sup with me, or thou go. 
Johan, Wyll ye not go than ? why so ? 330 

I pray you tell me, is there any dysdayne, 

Or ony enmyte, betwene you twayne ? 
Syr y. In fayth to tell the, betwene the and me, 

She is as wyse a woman as any may be; 

I know it well; for I have had the charge Bi 335 

Of her soule, and serchyd her conscyens at large. 

I never knew her but honest and wyse, 

Without any yvyll, or any vyce, 

Save one faut, I know in her no more. 

And because I rebuke her, now and then, therfore, 340 

She is angre with me, and hath me in hate ; 



76 yohan Johan 

And yet that that I do, I do it for your welth. 
Johan. Now God yeld it yow, god master curate. 

And as ye do, so send you your helth, 

Ywys I am bound to you a plesure. 345 

Syr J. Yet thou thynkyst amys, peradventure. 

That of her body she shuld not be a good woman, 

But I shall tell the what I have done, Johan, 

For that matter ; she and I be somtyme aloft, 

And I do lye uppon her, many a tyme and oft, 350 

To prove her, yet could I never espy 

That ever any dyd worse with her than I. 
Johan. Syr, that is the lest care I have of nyne, 

Thankyd be God, and your good doctryne ; 

But yf it please you, tell me the matter, 355 

And the debate ^ betwene you and her. 
Syr J. I shall tell the, but thou must kepe secret. 
Johan. As for that, Syr, I shall not let. 
Syr J. I shall tell the now the matter playn, — 

She is angry with me and hath me in dysdayn 360 

Because that I do her oft intyce 

To do some penaunce, after myne advyse. 

Because she wyll never leve her wrawlyng,^ 

But alway with the she is chydyng and brawlyng; 

And therfore I knowe, she hatyth [my] presens. 365 

Johan. Nay, in good feyth, savyng your reverens. 
Syr J. I know very well, she hath me in hate. 
Johan. Nay, I dare swere for her, master curate : 

\_Jside\ But, was I not a very knave ? 

I thought surely, so god me save, 370 

That he had lovyd my wyfe, for to deseyve me, 

And now he quytyth hym-self ; and here I se 

He doth as much as he may, for his lyfe. 

To styn [te] ^ the debate betwene me and my wyfe. 
Syr J. If ever she dyd, or though [t]* me any yll, 375 

Now I forgyve her with m[y]^ fre wyll; 

1 quarrel. ^ crying out, scolding. ^ Misprinted stynk. 

* Misprinted though. ^ Misprinted me. 



I 



^ yohan yohan 77 



Therfore, Johan Johan, now get the home 

And thank thy wyfe, and say I wyll not come. 
Johan. Yet, let me know, now, good Syr Johan, B i b 

Where ye wyll go to supper than. 380 

Syr y. I care nat greatly and I tell the. 

On saterday last, I and ii or thre 

Of my frendes made an appoyntement, 

And agaynst this nyght we dyd assent 

That in a place we wolde sup together ; 385 

And one of them sayd, he ^ wolde brynge thether 

Ale and bread ; and for my parte, I 

Sayd, that I wolde gyve them a pye. 

And there I gave them money for the makynge ; 

And an-other sayd, she wolde pay for the bakyng; 390 

And so we purpose to make good chere 

For to dryve away care and thought. 
Johan. Than I pray you, Syr, tell me here, 

Whyther shulde all this geare be brought ? 
Syr J, By my fayth, and I shulde not lye, 395 

It shulde be delyvered to thy wyfe, the pye. 
Johan. By God ! it is at my house, standyng by the fyre. 
Syr J. Who bespake that pye ? I the requyre. 
Johan. By my feyth, and I shall not lye. 

It was my wyfe, and her gossyp Margerye, 400 

And your good masshyp,'-^ callyd Syr Johan, 

And my neybours yongest doughter An ; 

Your masshyp payde for the stufFe and makyng, 

And Margery she payde for the bakyng.^ 
Syr J. If thou wylte have me nowe, in faithe I wyll go. 405 

Johan. Ye, mary, I beseche your masshyp do so, 

My wyfe taryeth for none but us twayne ; 

She thynketh longe or I come agayne. 
Syr J. Well nowe, if she chyde me in thy presens, 

I wylbe content, and take [it] in pacyens. 410 

1 Apparently a misprint for she ; it was clearly to be provided by Tyb ; cf. 1. 6l8. 

•■2 Cf. Play of JVether, 1. 235. Udall's R. D., I. iv. 33, etc. 

^ No provision seems to have been made for Margery and Anne sharing in the pie. 



78 Johan Johan 

Johan. By cokkis soule, and she ones chyde, 

Or frowne, or loure, or loke asyde, 

I shall brynge you a stafFe as myche as I may heve, 

Than bete her and spare not ; I gyve you good leve 

To chastyce her for her shreude varyeng. 415 

\_They return to Johan' s house. ~\ 
Tyb, The devyll take the for thy long taryeng ! 

Here is not a whyt of water, by my gowne, 

To washe our handes that we myght syt downe ; 

Go and hye the, as fast as a snayle. 

And with fayre water fyll me this payle. 420 

Johan. I thanke our Lorde of his good grace 

That I cannot rest longe in a place. 
Tyb, Go, fetche water, I say, at a worde, B ii 

For it is tyme the pye were on the borde ; 

And go with a vengeance, & say thou art prayde. 425 

Syr. J. A ! good gossyp ! is that well sayde ? 
Tyb. Welcome, myn owne swete harte. 

We shall make some chere or we departe. 
Johan. Cokkis soule, loke howe he approcheth nere 

Unto my wyfe : this abateth my chere. [^Exit,"] 430 

Syr J. By God, I wolde ye had harde the tryfyls. 

The toys, the mokkes, the fables, and the nyfyls,^ 

That I made thy husbande to beleve and thynke ! 

Thou myghtest as well into the erthe synke. 

As thou coudest forbeare laughyng any whyle. 435 

Tyb. I pray the let me here part of that wyle. 
Syr J. Mary, I shall tell the as fast as I can. 

But peas, no more — yonder cometh thy good man. 

[^Re-enter ]oH\^.~\ 

Johan. Cokkis soule, what have we here ? 

As far as I sawe, he drewe very nere 440 

Unto my wyfe. 
Tyb. What, art come so sone? 

Gyve us water to wasshe nowe — have done. 

1 Cf. "nyfuls," Play of the Wether, 1. 617. 



( 



yohan yohan 79 

Than he bryngeth the payie empty. 

Johan. By kockes soule, it was, even nowe, full to the brynk, 

But it was out agayne or I coude thynke ; 

Wherof I marveled, by God Almyght, 445 

And than I loked betwene me and the lyght 

And I spyed a clyfte, bothe large and wyde. 

Lo, wyfe ! here it is on the tone ^ syde. 
Tyb. Why dost not stop it ? 

Johan. Why, howe shall I do it ? 

Tyb. Take a lytle wax. 

Johan. Howe shal I come to it ? 450 

Syr y. Mary, here be ii wax candyls, I "say, 

Whiche my gossyp Margery gave me yesterday. 
Tyb. Tusshe, let hym alone, for, by the rode. 

It is pyte to helpe hym, or do hym good. 
Syr J. What ! Jhan Jhan, canst thou make no shyfte ? 455 

Take this waxe, and stop therwith the clyfte. 
Johan. This waxe is as harde as any wyre. 
Tyb. Thou must chafe it a lytle at the fyre. 
Johan. She that boughte the these waxe candylles twayne, 

She is a good companyon certayn. 460 

Tyb. What, was it not my gossyp Margery ? 
Syr J. Yes, she is a blessed woman surely. 
Tyb. Nowe wolde God I were as good as she. 

For she is vertuous, and full of charyte. 
Johan [aside'\. Npwe, so God helpe me; and by my holydome,^ 465 

She is the erranst baud betwene this and Rome. 
Tyb. What sayst ? B ii ^ 

Johan. Mary, I chafe the wax. 

And I chafe it so hard that my fingers krakks. 

But take up this py that I here torne; 

And it stand long, y-wys it wyll borne. 470 

Tyb. Ye, but thou must chafe the wax, I say. 
Johan. Byd hym syt down, I the pray — 

Syt down, good Syr Johan, I you requyre. 
Tyb. Go, I say, and chafe the wax by the fyre, 

1 Cf. 1. 21 1. 2 salvation. 



8o yohan Johan 

Whyle that we sup, Syr Jhan and I. 475 

Johan. And how now, what wyll ye do with the py ? 

Shall I not ete therof a morsell ? 
Tyb. Go and chafe the wax whyle thou art well, 

And let us have no more pratyng thus. 
Syr, y. Benedicite. 

Johan. Dominus, 480 

Tyb. Now go chafe the wax, with a myschyfe. 
Johan. What ! I come to blysse the bord,i swete wyfe ! 

It is my custome now and than. 

Mych good do it you. Master Syr Jhan. 
Tyb. Go chafe the wax, and here no lenger tary. 485 

Johan [aside] . And is not this a very purgatory 

To se folkis ete, and may not ete a byt ? 

By kokkis soule, I am a very wodcok. 

This payle here, now a vengaunce take it ! 

Now my wyfe gyveth me a proud mok ! 490 

Tyb. What dost ? 
Johan. Mary, I chafe the wax here, 

And I ymagyn to make you good chere, 11 

[Aside.'] That a vengaunce take you both as ye syt, %\ 

For I know well I shall not ete a byt. 

But yet, in feyth, yf I myght ete one morsell, 495 

I wold thynk the matter went very well. 
Syr J. Gossyp, Jhan Jhan, now mych good do it you. 

What chere make you, there by the fyre ? 
Johan. Master parson, I thank yow now ; 

I fare well enow after myne own desyre. 500 

Syr J. What dost, Jhan Jhan, I the requyre ? 
Johan. I chafe the wax here by the fyre. 
Tyb. Here is good drynk, and here is a good py. 
Syr J. We fare very well, thankyd be our lady. 
Tyb. Loke how the kokold chafyth the wax that is hard, 505 

And for his lyfe, daryth not loke hetherward. 



1 Cf. Pernet' 



Vous irayje signer la table ? 
Je scay bien le benedicite. 



I 



yohan yohan 8 1 

Syr y. What doth my gossyp ? 

yohan. I chafe the wax — 

[_Jsicie.'\ And I chafe it so hard that my fyngers krakks ; 

And eke the smoke puttyth out my eyes two : 

I burne my face, and ray my clothys also, B iii 510 

And yet I dare not say one word. 

And they syt laughyng yender at the bord. 
Tyb. Now, by my trouth, it is a prety jape. 

For a wyfe to make her husband her ape. 

Loke of Jhan Jhan, which maketh hard shy ft 515 

To chafe the wax, to stop therwith the clyft. 
yohan \astdi\ . Ye, that a vengeance take ye both two, 

Both hym and the, and the and hym also ; 

And that ye may choke with the same mete 

At the furst mursell that ye do ete. 520 

Tyb. Of what thyng now dost thou clatter, 

Jhan Jhan ? or whereof dost thou patter ? 
yohan. I chafe the wax, and make hard shyft 

To stopt her-with of the payll the ryft. 
Syr y. So must he do, Jhan Jhan, by my father kyn, 525 

That is bound of wedlok in the yoke. 
yohan [asidi], Loke how the pyld preest crammyth in; 

That wold to God he myght therwith choke. 
Tyb. Now, Master Parson, pleasyth your goodnes 

To tell us some tale of myrth or sadnes, 530 

For our pastyme, in way of communycacyon. 
Syr y. I am content to do it for our recreacyon, 

And of iii myracles I shall to you say. 
yohan. What, must I chafe the wax all day, 

And stond here, rostyng by the fyre ? 535 

Syr y. Thou must do somwhat at thy wyves desyre! 

I know a man whych weddyd had a wyfe, 

As fayre a woman as ever bare lyfe. 

And within a senyght after, ryght sone 

He went beyond se, and left her alone, 540 

And taryed there about a vii yere ; 

And as he cam homeward he had a hevy chere. 



82 yohan yohan 

For it was told hym that she was in heven. 

But, when that he comen home agayn was, 

He found his wyfe, and with her chyldren seven, 545 

Whiche she had had in the mene space; 

Yet had she not had so many by thre 

Yf she had not had the help of me. 

Is not this a myracle, yf ever were any. 

That this good wyfe shuld have chyldren so many 550 

Here in this town, whyle her husband shuld be 

Beyond the se, in a farre contre. 
Johan. Now, in good soth, this is a wonderous myracle, 

But for your labour, I wolde that your tacle B Hi b 

Were in a skaldyng water well sod. 555 

Tyb. Peace, I say, thou lettest the worde of God. 
Sir J. An other myracle eke I shall you say. 

Of a woman, whiche that many a day 

Had been wedded, and in all that season 

She had no chylde, nother doughter nor son ; 560 

Wherfore to Saynt Modwin ^ she went on pilgrimage, 

And offered there a lyve pyg, as is the usage 

Of the wyves that in London dwell ; 

And through the vertue therof, truly to tell. 

Within a moneth after, ryght shortly, 565 

She was delyvered of a chylde as moche as I. 

How say you, is not this myracle wonderous .? 
Johan. Yes, in good soth, syr, it is marvelous ; 

But surely, after myn opynyon, 

That chylde was nother doughter nor son. 570 

For certaynly, and I be not begylde. 

She was delyvered of a knave chylde. 
Tyb. Peas, I say, for Goddis passyon. 

Thou lettest Syr Johan's communication. 
Sir J. The thyrde myracle also is this : 575 

I knewe another woman eke y-wys, 

1 S. Modwena, an Irish virgin, who died a.d. 518. She is said to have been the patroness 
of Burton-upon-Trent, and Henry VIII. 's commissioners sent thence to London "the image 
of seint Moodwyn with her red kowe and hir staff, which wymen labouryng of child in those 
parties were very desirous to have with them to lean upon." 



I 



yohan Johan 83 

Whiche was wedded, & within v. monthis after 

She was delyvered of a fayre doughter, 

As well formed in every membre & joynt, 
; And as perfyte in every poynt 580 

As though she had gone v monthis full to th' ende. 

Lo ! here is v monthis of advantage. 
yohan. A wonderous myracle ! so God me mende ; 

I wolde eche wyfe that is bounde in maryage, 

And that is wedded here within this place, 585 

Myght have as quicke spede in every suche case. 
Tyb. Forsoth, Syr Johan, yet for all that 

I have sene the day that pus, my cat, 

Hath had in a yere kytlyns eyghtene. 
'Johan. Ye, Tyb, my wyfe, and that have I sene. 590 

But howe say you, Syr Jhan, was it good, your pye ? 

The dyvell the morsell that therof eate I. 

By the good lorde this is a pyteous warke — 

But nowe I se well the olde proverbe is treu : 

The parysshe preest forgetteth that ever he was clarke ! 595 

But, Syr Jhan, doth not remembre you 

How I was your clerke, & holpe you masse to syng, 

And hylde the basyn alway at the offryng ? B iv 

He never had halfe so good a clarke as 1 1 

But, notwithstandyng all this, nowe our pye 600 

Is eaten up, there is not lefte a byt. 

And you two together there do syt, 

Eatynge and drynkynge at your owne desyre. 

And I am Johan Johan, whiche must stande by the fyre 

Chafyng the wax, and dare none other wyse do. 605 

Syr y. And shall we alway syt here styll, we two ? 

That were to mych. 
Tyb. Then ryse we out of this place. 

Syr y. And kys me than in the stede of grace ; 

And farewell leman and my love so dere. 
yohan. Cokkis body, this waxe it waxte colde agayn here; — 610 

But what ! shall I anone go to bed. 

And eate nothyng, nother meate nor brede ? 



84 Johan Johan 

I have not be wont to have suche fare. 
Tyb. Why ! were ye not served there as ye are, 

Chafyng the waxe, standying by the fyre ? 615 

Johan. Why, what mete gave ye me, I you requyre ? 
Sir y. Wast thou not served, I pray the hartely. 

Both with the brede, the ale, and the pye ? 
Johan. No, syr, I had none of that fare. 
Tyh. Why ! were ye not served there as ye are, 620 

Standyng by the fyre chafyng the waxe ? 
Johan. Lo, here be many tryfyls and knakks — 

By kokkis soule, they wene I am other dronke or mad. 
Tyh. And had ye no meate, Johan Johan ? no had ? 
Johan. No, Tyb my wyfe, I had not a whyt. 625 

Tyh. What, not a morsel ? 
Johan. No, not one byt ; 

For honger, I trowe, I shall fall in a sowne. 
Sir J. O, that were pyte, I swere by my crowne. 
Tyh. But is it trewe ? 
Johan. Ye, for a surete. 

Tyh. Dost thou ly ? 
Johan. No, so mote I the ! ^ 630 

Tyh. Hast thou had nothyng ? 
Johan. No, not a byt. 

Tyh. Hast thou not dronke ? 
Johan. No, not a whyt. 

Tyh. Where wast thou ? 

Johan. By the fyre I dyd stande. 

Tyh. What dydyst ? 
Johan. I chafed this waxe in my hande, 

Where-as I knewe of wedded men the payne 635 

That they have, and yet dare not complayne; 

For the smoke put out my eyes two, 

I burned my face, and rayde my clothes also, 

Mendyng the payle, whiche is so rotten and olde, 

That it will not skant together holde ; 640 

And syth it is so, and syns that ye twayn 

^ may I thrive. 



Johan Johan 85 

Wold gyve me no meate for my sufFysance, B iv ^ 

By ko [k] kis soule I wyll take no lenger payn, 

Ye shall do all yourself, with a very vengaunce, 

For me, and take thou there thy payle now, 645 

And yf thou canst mend it, let me se how. 
Tyh. A ! horson's knave ! hast thou brok my payll ? 

Thou shalt repent, by kokkis lylly nayll. 

Rech me my dystaf, or my clyppyng sherys : 

I shall make the blood ronne about his erys. 650 

'Johan. Nay, stand styll, drab, I say, and come no nere, 

For by kokkis blood, yf thou come here, 

Or yf thou onys styr toward this place, 

I shall throw this shovyll full of colys in thy face. 
Tyh. Ye ! horson dryvyll ! get the out of my dore. 655 

Johan. Nay ! get thou out of my house, thou prestis here. 
Sir J. Thou lyest, horson kokold, evyn to thy face. 
Johan. And thou lyest, pyld preest, with an evyll grace. 
Tyb. And thou lyest. 

Johan. And thou lyest, Syr. 

Sy7- J. And thou lyest agayn. 

Johan. By kokkis soule, horson preest, thou shalt be slayn ; 660 

Thou hast eate our pye, and gyve me nought. 

By kokkes blod, it shal be fiill derely bought. 
Tyb. At hym, Syr Johan, or els God gyve the sorow. 
Johan. And have at your hore and thefe, Saynt George to borrow. ^ 

Here they fyght by the erys a whyky and than the preest and the zvyfe go 
out of the place. 

Johan. A ! syrs ! I have payd some of them even as I lyst, 665 
They have borne many a blow with my fyst, 
I thank God, I have walkyd them well. 
And dryven them hens. But yet, can ye tell 
Whether they be go ? for by God, I fere me, 
That they be gon together, he and she, 6 70 

Unto his chamber, and perhappys she wyll, 
Spyte of my hart, tary there styll, 

1 for mjr backer. Cf. R, D. IV. vii. 75, IV. viii. 45. 



86 



Johan Johan 



And, peradventure, there, he and she 
Wyll make me cokold, evyn to anger me ; 
And then had I a pyg in the woyrs ^ panyer, 
Therfor, by God, 1 wyll hye me thyder 
To se y^ they do me any vylany : 
And thus fare well this noble company. 

1 worse. 



675 



Finis 



Imprinted by Wyllyam Rastell 

the xii day of February 

the yere of our Lord 

Mcccc and xxxiii 

Cum privi/egio 



Nicholas Udall 



ROISTER DOISTER 
I 



Edited with Critical Essay and 
Notes by Ewald Fliigely Ph.D., 
Professor in Stanford University 



\ 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

Life. — Nicholas Udall was born in 1506, of a good family residing in 
Hampshire. As a lad of fourteen he entered Corpus Christi College, Oxford, 
and took his bachelor's degree there in May, 1524.^ The years of his Uni- 
versity life came at a period of great rehgious fermentation, and young Udall 
was, according to an old tradition,^ one of the young enthusiasts in whom 
the humanistic tilling of Erasmus had prepared the soil for Lutheran doctrines 
from Wittenberg. We may, therefore, imagine young Udall to have been 
one of those of whose heretical perversities Warham complains to Wolsey.^ 
Apparently Udall, as he grew older, grew if not calmer at least more cau- 
tious, and succeeded later in gaining the favour of Mary the Princess, and in 
retaining that of Mary the Queen. While at college, he formed a lasting 
friendship with John Leland, a friendship of which some poems of the latter 
give us a pleasing testimony.* Leland, of almost the same age as Udall, had 
taken his first degree at Cambridge in 1522, and according to an old custom, 
he continued his studies at Oxford, where Udall' s generosity won his heart. ^ 
In May, 1533, a number of verses were composed by them in joint author- 
ship, for a pageant at the coronation of Anne Boleyn.^ In the same year 
Udall seems to have settled at London as a teacher. He may even have con- 
templated becoming a monk — like Thomas More thirty years earlier ; he 
certainly dates his preface to the Flowers from Terence from the Augustinian 
Monastery at London, on the last of February, 1534. In the following 

1 Wood's Fa%ti^ quoted by Arber. Arber assigns 1504 as the year of Udall's birth, but 
makes him " aet. 18 " in 1524. Cf, Cooper's Extracts from C. C. C. Register. 

2 Cf. Bale, Catal. ed. 1557, Cent. 9, 45 (fol, 717; general statement concerning Udall's 
Protestantism). Luther anh disciplinis dum In acadetnia studuit addictus fuit. Tanner after 
Wood, cf. Cooper, XII. It is remarkable, however, that we do not find Udall in correspond- 
ence with the reformers ** in exile." 

3 In March, 1521, cf. Ellis, Original Letters, I. i, 239 sqq. 

* Reprinted from Leland' s Collectanea, V. by Cooper, XII. XIV. XXVI. 

5 Cf. the epigram " Je liber alitate Nic. Odoualli,''' quoted by Cooper, XII. 

6 Original among the Royal Mss., 18 A. L. XIV. Cf. Calendars, etc., VI., No. 564; 
U. 565, referring to Latin verses on this coronation by Richard Coxe, Udall's predecessor at 
Eton (from Harl. Ms. 6148, f. 117). Udall's verses are reprinted by Arber, English Garner, 
2, 52 ; parts of them published by Collier and Fairholt. Cf. Cooper (XIII.), who dates the 
pageant 1532 (as does Ward, Hist. Dram. Poetry, I. 141). This pageant shows Udall's 
earliest connection with the revels, and may have given him a name at the side of Heywood. 

89 



90 Nicholas Udall 

June he received the degree of Master of Arts from Oxford, and appears in 
the latter part of the same year as ** Magister Informator " at Eton, succeed- 
ing Master Richard Coxe.^ In this capacity he received payments between 
the last terms, 1534 and 1541.^ 

We can scarcely judge at this late day of the character of Udall' s educa- 
tional services, but the fact that he was generally on good terms with his 
pupils may reasonably be inferred from the preface to the edition of the 
Flowers^ printed in 1545. 

We may further infer with regard to his mastership at Eton, that he was 
himself influenced by the Eton custom of performing a play at Christmas. It 
appears even possible that the clause in a ** consuetudinary " of Eton (about 
1560), allowing the Latin school comedy to give place to an English one, 
if it were *' witty and graceful," ^ may have been a result of Udall's master- 
ship. And it is probable that Roister Doister was originally one of such 
plays unpretentiously offered by Udall to his boys,* modestly put aside after 
the performance and printed long afterwards. If all this be true, Udall's 
mastership deserves immortal fame in the annals of English literature. But 
the immortality is unfortunately of a different nature. Udall is stigmatized 
by one ungrateful pupil as a second Orbilius plagosuSy the realization of Eras- 
mus' s executioner. Tusser's often quoted doggerel runs : 

** From Paules I went to Eaton sent 
To learn streight waies, the latin phraies, 
When fiftie three stripes giuen to mee 

At once I had : 
For fault but small, or none at all, 
It came to pas, thus beat I was, 
See Udall see, the mercie of thee, 

To me poore lad." * 

We cannot now decide upon the merits of the case, but we are inclined 
to think that Tom Tusser the boy was as shiftless as Thomas Tusser the 

1 U. speaks later of the Eton mastership as "that roume which I was neuer desirous to 
obtain." 2 cf. Arber, p. 3. 

8 Cf. Warton, Hist, of English Poetry^ 3, 308 ; Inter dum etiam exbibet [sc. ludi magister'\ 
Anglico sermone contextas fabulas, si qua habeant acumen et leporem. Eton was the only place 
where lue knoiv of English plays ; but Radulphus Radclif at Hitchin may have performed some 
of his school comedies in English, as the " plebs " mentioned by Bale would not much have 
appreciated Latin performances, Catalogus, 8, 98, fol. 700 ; Herford, Literary Relations, p. 1 10, 
citing the occasional admission of English school plays at Eton, says that to *'this concession 
we owe the Ralph Roister Doister.'" More likely we owe the concession to Roister Doister. 
Cf Herford on Udall's De Papatu. 

* It seems improbable that the R. D. was ever performed at Court; Udall's ** interludes 
and devices" were pageants, as the Loseley Mss. prove; see below. 

5 Tusser's J"©*? Pointes, ed. Payne & Herrtage, p. 205. 



Nicholas Udall 91 

man later proved to be, and that, although he may have been a fine ** quer- 
ister," his ** latin phraies " would frequently offend the ear of the con- 
scientious humanist. Let us suppose that Thomas deserved his fifty-three 
stripes twice over, but did not realize that 6 /x^ Sapets avOpayiro^s ovk ttui- 
Severat. ^ 

In March, 1541/ some abuses were exposed that had lately disgraced the 
school. A robbery of plate and silver images was detected, to which two 
late Eton scholars and a servant of Udall' s confessed ; and Udall himself 
became "suspect to be counsel of the robbery.'* The judicial report states 
that Udall "having certain interrogatoryes ministred unto hym toching the 
sayd fact and other felonious trespasses whereof he was suspected, did confess 
that he did comitt a heinous offence with the sayd cheney [a " scoler " of 
Eton] sundry tymes hertofore and of late the vj*^ day of this present monethe 
in this present yere at London : whereupon he was committed to the Mar- 
shalsey." 

Udall was discharged from his office, but did not remain long in prison 
(as would have been the case if he had been proved guilty of a "felonious" 
crime) ; and an influential personage unknown to us made efforts to bring 
about his " restitucion to the roume of Scholemaister in Eton." Udall 
thanked this patron in an interesting letter, which seems to corroborate the 
words of the indictment, but states that the "heinous offence" was com- 
mitted in London (;/<?/ in Eton), and that it resulted in heavy debts. The 
most careful consideration of the letter leads me to believe that Udall had 
nothing to do with the theft, but had neglected his duties as teacher, and 
had not given the right example of " frugall livyng." ^ Most likely he had 
only followed the royal example; had enjoyed too much "Pastyme with 
good companye ! " 

1 Cooper attributes to Udall' s severity the running away from school of "divers" Eton 
boys alluded to by Roger Ascham [Schoolmaster). But this passage refers to 10 Dec. 1563, 
twenty-two years after Udall had ceased to swing the rod over the Eton boys ! 

2 Cf. quotation from Nicolas' s Proceedings and Ordinances of the Pri-vy Council^ 7, 152-53, 
in Cooper j the date is 14 March 32 Henry VIII. (1541-42) and not 1543, as Arber gives 
it. Arber dates Udall's letter also wrongly 1543 j it is referred to 1541-42 in Ellis's Original 
Letters of Eminent Literary Men, Camden Soc, 1843, P- ^* 

8 << Accepte this myn honest chaunge from vice to virtue, from prodigalitee to frugall 
livyng, from negligence of teachyng to assiduitee, from playe to studie, from lightness to 
gravitee." He speaks about his ** offenses," does not wish to excuse himself, but says 
**humana quidem esse, et emendari posse." He begs for a chance to show his "emendyng 
and reformadon," and quotes instances from ancient history of great men who had indulged in 
a " veray riottous and dissolute sorte of livyng " in their youth, had been ** drowned in volup- 
tuousness" and had lived in **slaundre and infamie," but had reformed. Not a word is said 
about thefts, * ' robberies, ' ' and such ' ' felonious trespasses. ' ' Cf. the whole letter from a new 
collation in Fliigel's Lesehuch, i, 351. 



92 Nicholas Udall 

In the same letter Udall petitions for a place where he could show his 
"amendment," and which would enable him also "by litle and litle . . . 
to paye euery man his own." ^ 

We do not know of the result of this letter, but it seems that Udall went 
"north" in the autumn of the same year. At any rate, in October, 1542, 
Robert Aldrich, Bishop of Carlisle, received letters "by the hande of Mr. 
Vdall " ;^ and Leland in a charming little song addressed to his "snow- 
white friend," refers to Udall as residing among the " Brigantes, where 
Mars now has the rule." ^ 

In the same autumn appeared Udall* s translation of Erasmus' s Apophthegms * 
and — after his return south — he was connected for the following three 
years with a great literary undertaking, which was not only favoured by the 
Court, but progressing under its auspices and with its collaboration, — Prin- 
cess Mary taking the most active part. This was the English translation of 
Erasmus's Paraphrase of the New Testament.^ 

Under Edward VI., Udall devoted himself to theological works ; he stood 
up 'for the royal prerogative in rehgious matters in his Answer to the articles 
of the commoners of Devonshire and Cornwall (summer 1549^); he took his 
share in a memorial volume published in 1551, after Bucer's death, and he 
translated in the same year Peter Martyr's Tractatus and Disputatio De Eu- 
charistia. A royal patent^ (of 1551) granted him the "privilege and 

1 U. does not beg in this letter for his " restitution," as Arber seems to accept. 

2 Cf. Cooper, XXIII. 

3 Mars had "the rule" there October, 1542-July, 1543 (Froude, 3, 525-570), then 
again August, 1547 (Somerset in Berwick, Froude, 4, 288) ; the naval expedition of 
Hertford in May, 1544, being here out of the question (/Z>. 4, 32). 

* This translation (published in September) might also indicate some connection between 
Udall and Aldrich during the summer of 1542. Aldrich was a great ** Erasmian " ; he had 
been the jwvenis blanda eloquentia whom Erasmus used as interpreter on that immortal pil- 
grimage to Walsingham, and he kept up a correspondence with Erasmus. 

^ Udall took as his share 8t. Luke and the "disposition" of the rest with exception of 
St. John and St. Mark ; perhaps he assisted also in the translation of Matthew and ^cts. 
The Prefaces are dated 1545, 1548. The whole must have been quite a lucrative business- 
undertaking, because every parish in England had, by law, to buy a copy of this work and 
"every parson had to have and diligently study the same conferring the one ^the Neiv Testa- 
ment both in Latin and Eng/ish"] with the other [_the paraphrase'^. Cf. Cranmer's Remains^ 
155, 156 (1548) ; the Injunctions of Edward, 1547 [lb. 499, 501), etc.; cf. also Grin- 
dal's fVorks, 134, 1575 Hooper's Works^ 2, 139, 143 {^Parker Soc). 

6 Cranmer too wrote ^^Ansivers to the Fifteen Articles of the Rebels, Devon, Anno 1549," 
reprinted in his Remains, 163 ; and a number of references to the Rebellion may be found in 
the writings of the Reformers, f. i. Letter of Hooper to Bullinger, 25 June, 1549, of John ab 
Ulmis to Bullinger, May 28, 1550, of Burcber to Bullinger^ 25 August, 1 549. But none 
of these correspondents ever mention Udall. 

7 Cf. Cooper, XXX. 



I 



I 



Nicholas Udall 93 

lycense ... to preint the Bible in Englyshe as well in the large volume for 
the use of the churches w*^in this our Realme ... as allso in any other 
convenient volume." 

This privilege was not the only sign of royal favour : we find Udall in 
November, 1551, presented by the King to a prebend in Windsor/ and later 
(in March, 1553) to the Parsonage of Calborne, in the Isle of Wight. 

After such favours received from Edward, and such services in the Prot- 
estant camp, we should expect to find Udall in disgrace under Queen Mary, 
and sharing with his fellow- Protestants at least the bitter fate of exile, but 
Mary had apparently preserved a grateful memory for her former fellow- 
worker in the Erasmian translation. If, indeed, she did not use him as a 
theologian, she remembered his dramatic talents, and so we find that a special 
warrant was issued, December 3, 1554, which shows us Udall in the role 
of playwright. The Office of the Queen's Revels was directed by the 
warrant referred to, to deliver to Udall such ** apparel " at any time as he 
might require for the ** setting foorth of Dialogues and Enterludes " before 
the Queen, for her **regell disporte and recreacion." In the beginning of 
the document^ appears an allusion to Udall as having shown previously **at 
soondrie seasons" his ** dilligence " in arranging ** Dialogues and Enter- 
ludes " — important documentary evidence of his connection with the 
"Revels," a connection apparently begun with the pageant for which he 
furnished such poor verses at Anne Boleyn's coronation. 

This evidence for the fact that Udall was known as a writer of "plays" 
before 1554 is singularly corroborated by the quotation of Roister' s letter 
to Custance (Act III., Scene iv.) as an example of "ambiguity" in the 
1553 edition of Wilson's Rule of Reason,^ 

1 An interesting letter of Udall' s, dated August, 1552, referring to his place at Windsor, 
was printed in Archaologia, 1869, Vol. XLII. 91, but has not hitherto been utilized for 
Udall's Biography. The preface to a translation of T. Geminie's Anatomy by Udall is dated 
20 July, 1552 ; cf Cooper, XXXI. ; Udall's Ephtolde et Carmina ad Gul. Hormannum et ad 
Jo. Lelandum^ are quoted by Bale, etc., and given under this year by Cooper (who reads: 
Hermannum). Hormann died 1535, as vice-provost of Eton. 

2 This warrant was communicated to the Archaeological Society, December 9, 1824, by Mr. 
Bray [Archaologia, 21, 551 ), but not printed until 1836 in the Loseley Mss., now first edited 
by A. J. Kempe ; No. 31, p. 63. 

3 See below, under Date of the Early Edition of R. D. Another early allusion to Udall as 
a playwright is that from Nichols's Progresses of ^een Elizabeth, 3, 177, according to which 
**an English play called Ezekias, made by Mr. Udall and handled by King's College men 
only," was performed before Elizabeth August 8, 1564, at Cambridge 5 see Cooper's Preface, 
xxxiii. Bale, who does not mention Udall as a playwright in the edition i 548 of his Catalogus 
(he mentions only [Ochino's ?] Tragoedia de papatu), says in the edition September, 1557* 
that Udall wrote *'comcBdias plures." There is nothing on Udall in his Supplement of 
1559. 



g4 Nicholas Udall 

As to the nature of Udall's ** Dialogues," ** Enterludes," and ** devises," 
we are not entirely without information. The very date of the warrant 
would indicate the occasion for Udall's services (December 3, 1554), if 
we had not a more definite statement. He was commissioned to get up the 
Christmas shows before Mary and Philip. 

Udall was in a dangerous position, since any reference to the Protestant 
sympathies of the nation might have cost his life, but he realized the situa- 
tion, and with good tact presented ** divers plaies," the '*incydents" of 
which were very innocent:^ **A mask of patrons of gallies like Venetian 
senators, with galley-slaves for their torche-bearers ; a mask of 6 Venuses 
or amorous ladies with 6 Cupids and 6 torche-bearers to them," and some 
**Turkes archers,"^ '*Turkes magistrates," and "Turkie women," "6 
lions' hedds of paste and cement," and a few other harmless parapher- 
nalia. 

How long Udall served the queen in this capacity we do not know. In 
1555, towards the end of his career, we find him at his old calling as 
master of Westminster School.^ When in November of the following year 
the old monastery was again opened, naturally Udall's services became 
superfluous, and he was doubtless discharged ; and so indeed the darkness 
enshrouding the last months of his life may cover a period of great distress. 
He died in December, 1556, and found his last resting place in St. Marga- 
ret's, Westminster ; where almost thirty years before Skelton had found first 
a sanctuary and then a grave. 

It seems that the queen did not erect a monument over the ashes of her 
old friend, at least none is registered by the industrious Weever; * but Udall 
does not need a monument from Queen Mary, he has erected it himself — 
are perennius — in the annals of English literature. 

1 It is remarkable that these documents should never have been utilized for Udall's biog- 
raphy. Cf. the '* Miscellaneous Extracts from Various Accounts relating to the Office of the 
Revels," printed among the Loseley Mss.y p. 90. The Muniment Room of James More 
Molyneux at Loseley House, Surrey, would furnish these and perhaps other documents most 
valuable for Udall's History and that of the Early Drama. 

The "scheme for an interlude, in which the persons of the drama were to be a Kingy 
a Knigbty a Judge, a Preacher , a Scholar, a Ser'ving-man,^'' which Hazlitt (^Handbook, 
622) carelessly attributes to Udall, is not connected with his name; cf Loseley Mss., 
p. 64. 

2 These may refer to another pageant, I.e. 

* No exact date given by Cooper, XXXIV. Hales gives good reasons for the probability 
that Udall's mastership commenced in 1553 ; cf. Englische Studien, 18, 421 5 cf. ib., a very 
interesting note on the Terentian Plays, annually performed at the Westminster School. It 
seems almost as if here, as well as at Eton, Udall's headmastership had some significance for 
the history of the English school comedy. 

* Funerall Monuments, ed. 1 63 1, fol. 497. 



Nicholas Udall 95 



Date of the Play. — Roister Doister was formerly assigned to the 
time of Udall's mastership at Eton (1534—41).^ In more recent 
years, however, this date has been rejected, and Professor J. W. 
Hales has tried to show that " this play was in fact written in 
1552, and more probably written for Westminster school." 2 

The arguments of Professor Hales, as far as I can see, might be 
summarized thus : 

1. The fact that Wilson — an old Eton boy himself, who left 
the school in 1541, and ought to have known of the play if it had 
ever been performed there — does not insert the "ambiguous letter" 
in his first and second editions of the Rule of Reason (1551, 1552), 
whereas he inserts it in the edition of 1553, " suggests that this comedy 
was written between the appearances of the second and the third editions T 

In favour of this theory speak further — according to Professor 
Hales — 

2. The fact that Bale does not mention any of Udall's comedies 
in the 1548 edition of his Catalogus ; 

3. The fact that "about 1552" Udall was in high esteem as a 
"comic dramatist"; 

4. The fact that Udall quotes a number of proverbial phrases 
which he got from Heywood's proverbs, published first in 1546; 

5. The fact that the usury statute of 37 Henry VIII. was re- 
pealed in 1552, "of some moment" as far as the "reference [in 
the play] to excessive usury " is concerned. 

The first argument is doubtless the strongest, but I venture to 
argue that the quotation of 1553 does not prove that the play was 
written in 1552, but only that Wilson was unable to use a copy of 
the play before 1553; whether this copy .was a manuscript copy, or 
a printed (and now lost) edition of the play, we cannot decide ; 
most probably IVilson^s quotation was made from an early edition of 
Roister^ printed in ISS^' 

The fact that Wilson left Eton in 1541 seems to make it probable 
that he remembered the " ambiguous " passage from his school days. 

The second argument is very slight, for Bale does not give a 
complete list of Udall's works either in edition 1548 or in edition 

1 See above, p. 90, and notes. 

2 The Date of the First English Comedy, in Engliscbe Studien, 18, 408-421. 



96 Nicholas Udall 

1557 J "°^ ^°^^ ^^ mention Udall's connection with the corona- 
tion pageants of 1533; ^"^ ^ modest school comedy would natu- 
rally not at once become public property. 

The third argument is based on a serious anachronism. We do not 
know anything of Udall's fame as a " comic dramatist about 1552'' 
The warrant of December 3, 1554, is dated, and cannot be used 
for "about 1552." Besides, the nature of Udall's " dialogues and 
interludes " for the " regell disporte and recreacion," as explained 
on p. 93, above, excludes any possibiHty of connecting these "Dia- 
logues " with the comedy. 

The number of proverbial phrases which Udall uses in common 
with Heywood's Proverbs (the early date of which, 1546, is rather a 
myth) proves no dependence of Udall on Heywood. Their use proves 
merely that Udall, as well as Heywood, talked the London English 
of his time, and that both were familiar with phrases common in 
the early sixteenth century. Any possible number of such phrases 
could not prove any " dependence." 

With regard to the allusion in Roister Doister to the Usury Statute, 
one may readily see that the reference is not to a date later than the 
repeal, in 1552, of 37 Henry VHL, c. 9, but to a period between 
I 5 4-5 ^^^ ^55 2' I^ -^ct v., Scene vi., lines 21 to 30, Custance 
blames Roister humorously, not for taking interest at all, but for 
taking too much (fifteen to one !), and for taking it right away instead 
of waiting until the year was up. The passage, therefore, does not 
refer to the law passed 5 and 6 Edward VI., c. 20 (1552), which 
repeals 37 Henry VHL, c. 9, and orders that "no person shall lend 
or forbear any sum of money for any maner of Usury or Increase 
to be received or hoped for above the Sum lent, upon pain to forfeit 
the Sum lent, and the Increase, [with] Imprisonment, and Fine at 
the king's pleasure." The passage refers to 37 Henry VIII., c. 20 
(1545), to a law which allows ten per cent interest: "The sum of 
ten pound in the hundred, and so after that rate and not above^' and 
which forbids the lender "to receive, accept or take in Lucre or 
Gain for the forbearing or giving Day of Payment of one whole year 
of and for his or their money," for any other " Period " but the 
year, not " for a longer or shorter time." Cf. the technical term 
" gain " in line 30. 



ROISTER DOISTER 

BY 

NICHOLAS UDALL 



[The Persons of the Play 



Ralph Royster Doyster, " Miles,* ^^ 

Mathewe Merygreeke, his friend. 

Gawin Goodlucke, London Merchant, affianced to Custance, 

Tristram Trusty, his friend. 

DoBiNET DouGHTiE, servant to Roaster. 

Tom Trupenie, servant to Custance. 

Sym Suresby, servant to Goodluck. 

Harpax and other Musicians in Royster* s service. 

Scrivener. 

Dame Christian Custance, a wealthy widow. 

Mage Mumble crust, her old nurse, 

Tibet Talk apace ) . , r r^ . 
• A ?• fnatds of Custance, 

Annot Alyface j -^ 



THE SCENE 
LONDON 2"] 



Cf. stage-direction, III, iii, 83, and Appendix B. 
2 St. Paul's is mentioned, II, iv, 40 ; Sym Suresby seems to come directly from the land- 
ing place J the house of Custance might, therefore, safely be located in the City proper. 



Roister Doister 



I 



The Prologue. 

What Creature is in health, eyther yong or olde, A ii 

But som mirth with modestie wd be glad to use 

As we in thys Enterlude shall now unfolde, 

Wherin all scurilitie we utterly refuse, 

Avoiding such mirth wherin is abuse : 

Knowing nothing more comendable for a mans recreation 

Than Mirth which is used in an honest fashion : / 

For Myrth prolongeth lyfe, and causeth health. 
Mirth recreates our spirites and voydeth pensivenesse, 
Mirth increaseth amitie, not hindring our wealth, 
Mirth is to be used both of more and lesse. 
Being mixed with vertue in decent comlynesse. 
As we trust no good nature can gainsay the same : 
Which mirth we intende to use, avoidyng all blame. 

The wyse Poets long time heretofore. 

Under merrie Comedies secretes did declare. 

Wherein was contained very vertuous lore. 

With mysteries and forewarnings very rare. 

Suche to write neither Plautus^ nor Terence dyd spare, 

Whiche among the learned 2 at this day beares3 the bell . 

These with such other therein dyd excell. 

\ S: r:^relf Jn^!n\he Prol. to the English An.na, circa ,5-- 

8 The northern plural. 

* To be the bell-wether, to excel. 

107 



io8 Roister Doister [act. i 

Our Comedie or Enterlude which we intende to play. 

Is named Royster Doyster in deede. 

Which against the vayne glorious doth invey, 

Whose humour the roysting sort continually doth feede. 

Thus by your pacience we intende to proceede 

In this our Enterlude by Gods leave and grace, 

And here I take my leave for a certaine space. 28 

FINIS. 



Actus, i. Scaena. 1. 

Mathewe Merygreeke. He entreth singing. A ii ^/ 

As long lyveth the mery man (they say) ^ 

As doth the sory man, and longer by a day. 

Yet the Grassehopper for all his Sommer pipyng, 

Sterveth in Winter wyth hungrie gripyng. 

Therefore an other sayd sawe doth men advise, 5 

That they be together both mery and wise. 

Thys Lesson must I practise, or else ere long, 

Wyth mee Mathew Merygreeke ^ it will be wrong. 

In deede men so call me, for by him that us bought, 

What ever chaunce betide, I can take no thought, 10 

Yet wisedome woulde that I did my selfe bethinke 

Where to be provided this day of meate and drinke : 

For knowe ^ ye that for all this merie note of mine. 

He might appose* me now that should aske where I dine. 

My lyving lieth heere and there, of Gods grace, 15 

Sometime wyth this good man, sometyme in that place. 

Sometime Lewis Loytrer^ biddeth me come neere, 

Somewhyles Watkin Waster maketh us good cheere 

1 Cf. Camden's Proverbs, p. 264; Ray's Proverbs, p. 132. 

2 Roger bon temps : a mad rascal, a merry greek j Gringalet : a merry grig . . . rogue, etc. 
(Cotgrave). 

8 A. has * know.' 

* See Like ivi/l to Like, Dodsley, 3 : 337. 

6 Cf. Robert the Ryfelar, etc., in Pierte PltPttintan i Petfer Piebaker, etc., in Tbersytes; 
Margteiy Mylkeducke, etc., in Skeltbn. 



sc. i] Roister Dotster 109 

Sometime Davy Diceplayer ^ when he hath well cast 

Keepeth revell route as long as it will last. 20 

Sometime Tom Titivile^ maketh us a feast, 

Sometime with sir Hugh Pye I am a bidden gueast, 

Sometime at Nichol Neverthrives I get a soppe, 

Sometime I am feasted with Bryan Blinkinsoppe,^ 

Sometime I hang on Hankyn * Hoddydodies sleeve, 25 

But thys day on Ralph Royster Doysters by hys leeve. 

For truely of all men he is my chiefe banker 

Both for meate and money, and my chiefe shootanker.^ 

For, sooth Roister Doister in that he doth say,^ 

And require what ye will ye shall have no nay. 30 

But now of Roister Doister somewhat to expresse, A iii 

That ye may esteeme him after hys worthinesse. 

In these twentie townes and seke them throughout, 

Is not the like stocke, whereon to grafFe a loute. 

All the day long is he facing '^ and craking ^ 35 

Of his great actes in fighting and fraymaking : 

But when Roister Doister is put to his proofe. 

To keepe the Queenes^ peace is more for his behoofe. 

If any woman smyle or cast on hym an eye. 

Up is he to the harde eares in love by and by, 40 

And in all the hotte haste must she be hys' wife. 

Else farewell hys good days, and farewell his life, 

Maister Raufe Royster Doyster is but dead and gon 

Excepte she on hym take some compassion. 

Then chiefe of counsell, must be Mathew Merygreeke, 45 

What if I for mariage to suche an one seeke ? 

1 Cf. More's lines to Davy the dycer [TForks^ p. 143 3*). ^ See Appendix C. 

8 Cf. Ben Jonson's Neiv Inn, II. ii. 

* Cf. Hankin boby in Tbersytes ; Handy-dandy in P. Ploiuman ; Huddy-peke in Four 
Element',, in Skelton, etc. ; ib. fcoddy poule (= *' dunder-head," Dyce). 

6 'This ointment is even shot-anchor," Heywood's Four PP. (= last resort). 

6 Cf. 11. 47, 49 ; for the whole gcene cf. Plautus, Miles Glor. v. 31 sqq.: Et adsentandumst 
quicquid hie mentibitur ; also Ter. Eunuchus, II. ii, 252 et seq, 

■^ Cf. Palsgrave, 542 : '* I face as one dothe that brauleth." ^ boasting. 

8 Of course * kinges ' if written before July 7, 1553; probably changed to 'Queen' 
(= Elizabeth) by the printer. (Fleay conjectures. Hist. Stage, p. 59, that R. D. was revived 
March 8, 1561 j the play having been rewritten from an Edward VI. interlude. Gen. Ed.) 



1 1 o Roister Doister [act. i 

Then must I sooth it, what ever it is : 

For what he sayth or doth can not be amisse, 

Holde up his yea and nay, be his nowne^ white ^ sonne, 

Prayse and rouse him well, and ye have his heart wonne, 50 

For so well liketh he his owne fonde fashions 

That he taketh pride of false commendations. 

But such sporte have I with him as I would not leese. 

Though I should be bounde to lyve with bread and cheese. 

For exalt hym, and have hym as ye lust in deede : 55 

Yea to hold his finger in a hole for a neede. 

1 can with a worde make him fayne or loth, 

I can with as much make him pleased or wroth, 

I can when I will make him mery and glad, 

I can when me lust make him sory and sad, 60 

I can set him in hope and eke in dispaire, 

I can make him speake rough, and make him speake faire. 

But I marvell I see hym not all thys same day, 

I wyll seeke him out : But loe he commeth thys way, 

I have yond espied hym sadly comming, A iii ^ 65 

And in love for twentie pounde, by hys glommyng. 

Actus, i. Scaena. ii. 

Rape Roister Doister. Mathew Merygreeke. 

R. Royster. Come death when thou wilt, I am weary of my life. 

M. Mery. I tolde you I, we should wowe another wife. 

R. Royster. Why did God make me suche a goodly person ? 

M. Mery. He is in^ by the weke, we shall have sport anon. 

R. Royster. And where is my trustie friende Mathew Merygreeke ? 5 

M. Mery. I wyll make as I sawe him not, he doth me seeke. 

R. Roister. I have hym espyed me thinketh, yond is hee. 

Hough Mathew Merygreeke my friend, a worde with thee.* 

1 The 'n' transferred from * myne ' (my nowne). Cf. nuncle, etc. 

2 Cf. Like will to Like, 329 ; Leland calls Udall niveum . . . sodalem ; Cooper's ed. XXVII. 
8 Heywood's Prov. ; Lear, V. iii, 15. 

* R. R. D. addresses M. with < thou ' 'thee,' whereas M. uses — on the whole — 'you, 
yc' (to R. R. D.) -, cf. Skeat's fVilliam of Palerney XLI. note ; Zupitza's Guy, v. 356, note. 



sc. ii] Roister Doister 1 1 z 

M. Mery. I wyll not heare him, but make as I had haste, 

Farewell all my good friendes, the tyme away dothe waste, ' 

And the tide they say, tarieth for no man. 
R, Roister. Thou must with thy good counsell helpe me if th ..' 

can. 
M. Mery. God keepe thee worshypfull Maister Roister Doister, 

And fare well the lustie Maister Roister Doister. 
R. Royster. I muste needes speake with thee a worde or twaine. i 
M. Mery. Within a month or two I will be here againe. 

Negligence in greate affaires ye knowe may marre all. 
R. Roister. Attende upon me now, and well rewarde thee I shall 
M. Mery. I have take my leave, and the tide is well spent. 
R. Roister. I die except thou helpe, I pray thee be content, 20 

Doe thy parte wel nowe, and aske what thou wilt. 

For without thy aide my matter is all spilt. 
M. Mery, Then to serve your turne I will some paines take. 

And let all myne owne affaires alone for your sake. 
R. Royster. My whole hope and trust resteth onely in thee. : - 

M. Mery. Then can ye not doe amisse what ever it bee. 
R. Royster. Gramercies Merygreeke, most bounde to thee I am. P. 
M. Mery. But up with that heart, and speake out like a ramme, 

Ye speake like a Capon that had the cough now : 

Bee of good cheere, anon ye shall doe well ynow. ■ 

R. Royster. Upon thy comforte, I will all things well handle. 
M. Mery. So loe, that is a breast to blowe out a candle. 

But what is this great matter I woulde faine knowe. 

We shall fynde remedie therefore I trowe. 

Doe ye lacke money ? ye knowe myne olde offers, 3j 

Ye have always a key to my purse and coffers. 
R. Royster. I thanke thee: had ever man suche a frende ? 
M. Mery. Ye gyve unto me : I must needes to you lende. 
R. Royster. Nay I have money plentie all things to discharge.^ 
M. Mery \aside'\ . That knewe I ryght well when I made offer so 
large. 40 

R. Royster. But it is no suche matter .2 

1 Cf. Miles^ V. 1063. 

2 The first half line is not assigned to R. R. D. in E. and A.; but it should be. Gen. Ed. 



1 1 2 Roister Doister [act. i 

M, Mery. What is it than ? 

Are ye in daunger of debte to any man ? 

If ye be, take no thought nor be not afraide, 

Let them hardly ^ take thought how they shall be paide. 

R. Royster. Tut I owe nought. 45 

M, Mery. What then ? fear ye imprisonment ? 

R. Royster. No. 

M. Mery. No I wist ye ofFende not so,2 to be shent. 

But if [y]e^ had, the Toure coulde not you so holde, 
But to breake out at all times ye would be bolde. 
What is it ? hath any man threatned you to beate ? 

R. Royster. What is he that durst have put me in that heate ? 50 
He that beateth me, by his armes,* shall well fynde. 
That I will not be farre from him nor runne behinde. 

M. Mery. That thing knowe all men ever since ye overthrewe, 
The fellow of the Lion which Hercules slewe,^ 
But what is it than? 55 

R. Royster. Of love I make my mone. 

M. Mery. Ah this foolishe a^ love, wilt neare let us alone? 
But bicause ye were refused the last day. 
Ye said ye woulde nere more be intangled that way : 
" I would medle no more, since I fynde all so unkinde," ^ 

R. Royster. Yea, but I can not so put love out of my minde. 60 

Math. Mer. But is your love tell me first, in any wise, A iv ^ 

In the way of Mariage, or of Merchandise ? 
If it may otherwise than lawfull be founde. 
Ye get none of my helpe for an hundred pounde. 

R. Royster. No by my trouth I would have hir to my Wife. 65 

M. Mery. Then are ye a good man, and God save your life, 
And what or who is she, with whome ye are in love ? 

R. Royster. A woman whome I knowe not by ^hat meanes to move. 

1 certainly 5 cf. < hardily,' Chauc. C. T. Pro/, v. 156. 

2 E. has the comma after * ofFende. ' 

8 E. misprints be for * ye ' ; corrected by C. and H. 

* An oath = by God's armes ; cf. V. vi, 22. 

fi Cf. Tbersytes, Dodsley, i, 403. 

6 Cf. Phil Soc. Diet. s.v. A prep. ^ 11 ; C. and H. drop the *a.' 

"^ The quotation marks are the editor's. 



sc. ii] Roister Doister 1 1 3 

M. Mery. Who is it ? 

R. Royster. A woman yond. 

M. Mery. What is hir name ? 

R. Royster. Hir yonder. 70 

M. Mery. Who^ [?] 

R. Royster. Mistresse ah — 

M. Mery. Fy fy for shame [!] 

Love ye, and know not whome ? but hir yonde, a Woman, 
We shall then get you a Wyfe, I can not tell whan. 

R. Royster. The faire Woman, that supped wyth us yesternyght — 
And I hearde hir name twice or thrice, and had it ryght. 

M. Mery. Yea, ye may see ye nere ^ take me to good cheere with 
you, 75 

If ye had, I coulde have tolde you hir name now. 

R. Royster. I was to blame in deede, but the nexte tyme per- 
chaunce : 
And she dwelleth in this house. 

M. Mery. What Christian Custance. 

R. Royster. Except I have hir to my Wite, I shall runne madde. 

M. Mery. Nay unwise perhaps, but I warrant you for madde. 80 

R. Royster. I am utterly dead unlesse I have my desire. 

M. Mery. Where be the bellowes that blewe this sodeine fire ? 

R. Royster. I heare she is worthe a thousande pounde and more. 

M. Mery. Yea, but learne this one lesson of me afore. 

An hundred pounde of Marriage money doubtlesse, 85 

Is ever thirtie pounde sterlyng, or somewhat lesse. 
So that hir Thousande pounde yf she be thriftie. 
Is muche neere ^ about two hundred and fiftie, 
Howebeit wowers and Widowes are never poore. 

R. Royster. Is she a Widowe ? ^ I love hir better therefore. 90 

M. Mery. But I heare she hath made promise to another. 

R. Royster. He shall goe without hir, and^ he were my brother. 

M. Mery. I have hearde say, I am right well advised. 
That she hath to Gawyn Goodlucke promised. 

R. Royster. What is that Gawyn Goodlucke ? B 1 95 

^ E., 'Whom.' 3 Middle Engl, comparative; cf. near, ner, etc. 

2 never; C, *ne're'; H., 'ne'er,' * Cf. Plautus, Miles, 965. ^ *an.' 

I 



114 Roister Dotster [act. i 

M» Mery. a Merchant man. 

R. Royster Shall he speede afore me ? nay sir by sweete Sainct 
Anne. 
Ah sir, Backare quod Mortimer to his sowe,i 
I wyll have hir myne owne selfe I make God a vow. 
For I tell thee, she is worthe a thousande pounde. 

M. Mery. Yet a fitter wife for your maship^ might be founde : 1 00 
Suche a goodly man as you, might get one wyth lande,^ 
Besides poundes of golde a thousande and a thousande, 
And a thousande, and a thousande, and a thousande. 
And so to the summe of twentie hundred thousande. 
Your most goodly personage is worthie of no lessC* 105 

R. Royster. I am sorie God made me so comely doubtlesse, ^ 
For that maketh me eche where so highly favoured. 
And all women on me so enamoured.^ 

M. Mery. Enamoured quod you ? have ye spied out that ? 

Ah sir, mary nowe I see you know what is what. IIO 

Enamoured ka ? ^ mary sir say that againe, 
But I thought not ye had marked it so plaine. 

R. Royster. Yes, eche where they gaze all upon me and stare. 

M. Mery Yea malkyn, I warrant you as muche as they dare. 

And ye will not beleve what they say in the streete, 115 

When your mashyp passeth by all such as I meete. 

That sometimes I can scarce finde what aunswere to make. 

Who is this (sayth one) sir Launcelot du lake?^ 

Who is this, greate Guy^ of Warwike, sayth an other? 

No (say I) it is the thirtenth Hercules brother. 120 

Who is this ? noble Hector of Troy.^ sayth the thirde ? 

No, but of the same nest (say I) it is a birde. 

1 Cf. Heywood's Pro-verbs, I, ch. ii (72) ; 300 Epigrams, 158. 
^mastership; see 1, 1 1 6, etc. ; cf. ' ientman,' III. v, 8; * gemman,' etc. 

8 Cf. Plaut. Miles, 1061. 

* Cf. ih. : Neu ecastor nimis uilist tandem. 

^ Cf. ib. 68, et passim i and Terent. Eunuch. V. viii, 62. 

6 Cf Plaut. Miles, 1 264, and the whole of the first scene. 

7 Cf ' Ko I,' * Ko she; III. iii, 21, 35 5 ' Ko you,' III. iv, 131 ; Pericles^ II. 1, 82,- 
"Die Ke-tha?" < company quotha ? ' Four Elements [Dodsley, I, 23]. 

^ Cf. Tbersites, [Dodsley, i, 399, 400]. 

9 E., *Cuy.' -> 



sc. 



ii] Roister Doister 115 



Who is this? greate Goliah^ Sampson^ or Colhrande?^ 

No (say I) but it is a brute ^ of the Alie^ lande. 

Who is this? greate Alexander?^ or Charle le Maigne? 125 

No, it is the tenth Worthie, say I to them agayne: 

I knowe not if I sayd well. 

R. Royster. Yes for so I am. 

M, Mery. Yea, for there were but nine worthies before ye 
came. B i b 

To some others, the third Cato^ I doe you call. 
And so as well as I can I aunswere them all. 130 

Sir I pray you, what lorde or great gentleman is this ? 
Maister Ralph Roister Doister dame say I, ywis. 
O Lorde (sayth she than) what a goodly man it is, 
Woulde Christ I had such a husbande as he is. 
O Lorde (say some) that the sight of his face we lacke:^ 135 
It is inough for you (say I) to see his backe. 
His face is for ladies of high and noble parages.'' 
With whome he hardly scapeth great mariages. 
With muche more than this, and much otherwise. 

R. Royster. I can thee thanke that thou canst suche answeres de- 
vise : 140 
But I perceyve thou doste me throughly knowe. 

M. Mery, I marke your maners for myne owne learnyng I trowe, 
But suche is your beautie, and suche are your actes, 
Suche is your personage, and suche are your factes,^ 
That all women faire and fowle, more and less, 145 

They^ eye you, they lubbe^^ you, they talke of you doubt- 
lesse, 

1 diabolicae naturae ; see Guy of Warnuick^ v. 9945, etc. 

2 Brutusy of the British, Welsh or Arthurian story, hence generally a hero [Murray], 
' ' Alie ' = Hali, Haly, Holy ? or Alye = affinis = of the neighbouring country ? 

* Cf. Plaut. Miles, 'j'jj ; Achilles, ib. 1054. 

5 Tertius e caelo cecidit CatOj Juven. Sat. 2, 40. 

6 Cf. Plaut. Miles, 65. 

"^ Cf. **a prince of highe parage," Chester Plays, I, 1 57. 

8 Cf. Caxton's " faytes of armes " [Prol. Eneydos), the M. L. *' facta guerrae, armorum." 

9 E., 'They' (not 'That,' as A. reads). 

10 love ; cf. III. iv, 99. Baby-talk ? or the language of the Dutch * minions ' ? Hazlitt 
says : a colloquialism still in use. But the dictionaries are silent. 



1 1 6 Roister Doister 



[act. 



Your p [1] easant looke maketh them all merie, 

Ye passe not by, but they laugh till they be werie, 

Yea and money coulde I have[,] the truthe to tell. 

Of many, to bryng you that way where they dwell. 150 

R. Royster. Merygreeke for this thy reporting well of mee : 

M. Mery. What shoulde I else sir, it is my duetie pardee : 

R. Royster. I promise thou shalt not lacke, while I have a grote. 

M. Mery, Faith sir, and I nere had more nede of a newe cote. 

R. Royster. Thou shake have one to morowe, and golde for to 
spende. 155 

M. Mery. Then I trust to bring the day to a good ende. 
For as for mine owne parte having money inowe, 
I could lyve onely with the remembrance of you. 
But nowe to your Widowe whome you love so hotte. 

R. Royster. By cocke thou sayest truthe, I had almost forgotte. 160 

M. Mery. What if Christian Custance will not have you what ? 

R. Roister. Have me ? yes I warrant you,^ never doubt of that, 
I knowe she loveth me, but she dare not speake. B ii 

M. Mery. In deede meete it were some body should it breake. 

R. Roister. She looked on me twentie tymes yesternight, 165 

And laughed so. 

M. Mery. That she coulde not sitte upright, 

R. Roister. No faith coulde she not. 

M. Mery. No even such a thing I cast.2 

R. Roister. But for wowyng thou knowest women are shamefast. 
But and she knewe my minde, I knowe she would be glad. 
And thinke it the best chaunce that ever she had. 170 

M. Mery. Too^ hir then like a man, and be bolde forth to starte, 
Wowers never speede well, that have a false harte. 

R. Roister. What may I best doe ? 

M. Mery. Sir remaine ye a while [here *] ? 

Ere long one or other of hir house will appere. 

Ye knowe my minde. 175 

1 R. uses * you ' 5 cf. I. ii, 8. 

2 Cf, Palsgrave, 477, '< Je revolve." 
« Cf. I. iv, iii, etc., C. & H. *To.' 

* Not in E. J added by C. In E., the comma is after 'while.' 



i 



I 



I 



sc. Ill] Roister Doister 1 1 7 

R. Royster. Yea now hardly ^ lette me alone. 

M. Mery. In the meane time sir, if you please, I wyll home. 
And call your Musitians,^ for in this your case 
It would sette you forth, and all your wowyng grace. 
Ye may not lacke your instrumentes to play and sing. 

R, Royster. Thou knowest I can doe that. l8o 

M. Mery. As well as any thing. 

Shall I go call your folkes, that ye may shewe a cast?^ 

R. Royster. Yea runne I beseeche thee in all possible haste. 

M. Mery. I goe. Exeat. 

R. Royster. Yea for I love singyng out of measure. 

It comforteth my spirites and doth me great pleasure. 185 

But who commeth forth yond from my swete hearte Cus- 

tance ? 
My matter frameth well, thys is a luckie chaunce. 



Actus, i. Scaena Hi. 

Mage Mumble crust/ spinning on the distaffe. Tibet Talk apace, sow- 
yng. Annot Alyface, knittyng. R. Roister. 

M. Mumhl. If thys distaffe were spoonne[,] Margerie Mumble- 
crust [ — ] 

Tih. Talk.^ Where good stale ale is will drinke no water I trust. 

M. Mumhl. Dame Custance hath promised us good ale and white 
bread.^ 

Tih. Talk. If she kepe not promise, I will beshrewe hir head : B H * 
But it will be starke nyght before I shall have done. 5 

R. Royster [aside^ . I will stande here a while, and talke with them 
anon, 

iCf. I. ii, 44; IV. vi, 7. 

2 Cf. Reinhardstoettner, P/autus, etc., 671 : Capitano Spavento viene con It muiici per far 
una mattinata a Isabella. 

3 specimen. 

* On Mumblecrust, etc., see Appendix D. 
5 Interrupting Mage. 

® Better fare than usual. See Harrison's Description of Engl, in Holinshed's Cbron. i, 
168 (ed. 1587). 



1 1 8 Roister Doister tact. i 

I heare them speake of Custance, which doth my heart good, 
To heare hir name spoken doth even comfort my blood. 
M, Mumhl. Sit downe to your worke Tibet like a good girle. 
Tih, Talk. Nourse medle you with your spyndle and your whirle, lo 
No haste but good, Madge Mumblecrust, for whip and whurre ^ 
The olde proverbe doth say, never made good furre. 
M. MumbL Well, ye wyll sitte downe to your worke anon, I 

trust. 
Tib. Talk. Soft fire maketh sweete malte,^ good Madge Mumble- 
crust. 
M. Mumhl. And sweete make maketh joly good ale for the 
nones. 15 

Tih. Talk. Whiche will slide downe the lane without any bones. 

Cantet? 
Olde browne bread crustes must have much good mumblyng. 
But good ale downe your throte hath good easie tumbling. 
K. Royster [astde^ . The jolyest wench that ere I hearde, little 
mouse, — 
May I not rejoice that she shall dwell in my house? 20 

Tib. Talk. So sirrha, nowe this geare beginneth for to frame. 
M. Mumhl. Thanks to God, though your work stand stil, your 

tong is not lame 
Tih. Talk. And though your teeth be gone, both so sharpe and so 
fine 
Yet your tongue can renne on patins* as well as mine. 
M. Mumhl. Ye were not for nought named Tyb Talke apace. 25 
Tih. Talk. Doth my talke grieve you ? Alack, God save your 

grace. 
M. Mumhl. I holde ^ a grote ye will drinke anon for this geare. 
Tih, Talk, And I wyll pray you the stripes for me to beare. 

1 Note the fondness for proverbs, a trait taken firom life and often to be found in later plays. 
— Sherwood: To whurre, whurle (or yarre) as a dog, Grander comtne un cbien. Cooper: 
scolding. It is perhaps = whirr, whirret (slashing, slash) ? 

2 Cf. III. iii, 102; Heywood's Proverbs, i, ch. 2 (p. 6); Camden's Proverbs, 276, 
277, etc. 

* Apparently w. 17, 18. 
• * Heywood's Proverbs, 2, ch. 7. Patten : a wooden shoe that made a great clattering. 
6 Wager j cf. G. G. N., I. iii, 20 j I. iv, 47. 



sc. Ill] Roister Doister 1 1 9 

M. Mumhl. I holde a penny, ye will drink without a cup. 

Tih. Talk. Wherein so ere ye drinke, I wote ye drinke all up. 30 

An. Alyface} By Cock and well sowed, my good Tibet Talke 

apace. 
Tih. Talk. And een as well knitte my nowne Annot Alyface. 
R. Royster ^aside^ . See what a sort she kepeth that must be my 
wife[!j 

Shall not I when I have hir, leade a merrie life ? 
Tib, Talk. Welcome my good wenche, and sitte here by me just. 35 
An. Alyface. And howe doth our old beldame here, Mage Mumble- 
crust ? 
Tib. Talk. Chyde, and finde faultes, and threaten to complaine. 
An. Alyface. To make us poore girles shent to hir is small gaine. B Hi 
M. Mumbl. I dyd neyther chyde, nor complaine, nor threaten. 
R. Royster \aside~\. It woulde grieve my heart to see one of them 
beaten. 40 

M. Mumbl. I dyd nothyng but byd hir worke and holde hir peace. 
Tib. Talk. So would I, if you coulde your clattering ceasse : 

But the devill can not make olde trotte ^ holde hir tong. 
An. Alyface. Let all these matters passe, and we three sing a song, 

So shall we pleasantly bothe the tyme beguile now, 45 

And eke dispatche all our workes ere we can tell how. 
Tib. Talk. I shrew them that say nay, and that shall not be I. 
M. Mumbl. And I am well content. 
Tib. Talk. Sing on then by and by. 
R. Royster [aside~^ . And I will not away, but listen to their song, 

Yet Merygreeke and my folkes tary very long. 50 

Tib, An, and Margerie, doe singe here. 

Pipe mery Annot.^ etc. 
Trilla, Trilla. Trillarie. 

Worke Tibet, worke Annot, worke Margerie. 
Sewe Tibet, knitte Annot, spinne Margerie. 
Let us see who shall winne the victorie. 55 

1 entering. 

2 Sherwood : Une -vieiUe cbarougne. A tough toothlesse trot, etc. 

^ The same song is alluded to in A pore Helpe (Hazlitt's Early Pop. Poetry^ 3, 253). 



1 20 Roister Doister [act. i 

T'lh. Talk. This sieve is not willyng to be sewed I trowe, 

A small thing might make me all in the grounde to throwe. 

Then they sing agayne. 

Pipe merrie Annot. etc. 

Trilla. Trilla. Trillarie. 

What Tibet, what Annot, what Margerie. 60 

Ye sleepe, but we doe not, that shall we trie. 

Your fingers be nombde, our worke will not lie. 

Tib. Talk. If ye doe so againe, well I would advise you nay. 
In good sooth one stoppe ^ more, and I make holy day. 

They singe the thirde tyme. 

Pipe Mery Annot. etc. 65 

Trilla. Trilla. Trillarie. 

Nowe Tibbet, now Annot, nowe Margerie. B iii * 

Nowe whippet 2 apace for the maystrie. 
But it will not be, our mouth is so drie. 

Tih. Talk. Ah, eche finger is a thombe to day me thinke, 70 

I care not to let all alone, choose it swimme or sinke. 

They sing the fourth tyme. 

Pipe Mery Annot. etc. 
Trilla. Trilla. Trillarie. 
When Tibet, when Annot, when Margerie. 
I will not, I can not, no more can I. 75 

Then give we all over, and there let it lye. 

Lette hir caste downe hir worke. 

Tih. Talk. There it lieth, the worste is but a curried cote [!] ^ 
Tut I am used therto, I care not a grote. 

1 stitch. 

2 Cf. ivbippit (in Halliwell) : to jump about, etc. In A Treaty se shewing . . . the Pryde 
and Abuse of Women No%u a Dayes (c. 1550) : "With whippet a whyle lyttlc pretone, 
Prancke it, and hagge it well," etc. 

3 E. has comma. 



SC. Ill] 



Roister Doister 121 



An, Alyface, Have we done singyng since ? then will I in againe, 
Here I founde you, and here I leave both twaine. Exeat. 

M. Mumhl. And I will not be long after : Tib Talke apace. 

Tib. Talk. What is y^ matter ? 

M. Mumhl. ^looking at R.^ . Yond stode a man al this space 
And hath hearde all that ever we spake togyther. 

Tib. Talk. Mary the more loute he for his comming hither. 

And the lesse good he can to listen maidens talke. 85 

I care not and I go byd him hence for to walke : 

It were well done to knowe what he maketh here away.^ 

R. Royster [aside^. Nowe myght I speake to them, if I wist what 
to say. 

M. Mumbl. Nay we will go both ofF, and see what he is. 

R. Royster. One that hath hearde all your talke and singyng 
ywis. 90 

Tib. Talk. The more to blame you, a good thriftie husbande^ 
Woulde elsewhere have had some better matters in hande. 

R. Royster. I dyd it for no harme, but for good love I beare. 
To your dame mistresse Custance, I did your talke heare. 
And Mistresse nource I will kisse you for acquaintance. 95 

M. Mumhl. I come anon sir. 

Tib. Talk. Faith I would our dame Custance 
Sawe this geare. 

M. Mumhl. I must first wipe al cleane, yea I must. 

Tib. Talk. Ill chieue ^ it dotyng foole, but it must be cust. 

[Royster kisses Mumblecrust.] 

M. Mumbl. God yelde * you sir, chad ^ not so much ichotte ^ not 

whan, 
Nere since chwas bore chwine, of such a gay gentleman. 100 
R. Royster. I will kisse you too [,] mayden [,] for the good will I 

beare you. B iv 

1 Murray's earliest quotation for 'here away,' etc., is from 1564. 

2 Sherwood : Bon mesnagier. ^ bring to an end. 
* yield if^ou ^ reward. 

5 I had; I wot. The dialect (generally southern, but occasionally also northern) used 
by rustic characters in the earlier plays; e.g. in G. G. N., Trial of Treasure^ Like -will tt 
Like, etc. 



122 Roister Dotster [act. i 

Tib Talk. No forsoth, by your leave ye shall not kisse me. 

R. Royster. Yes be not afearde, I doe not disdayne you a whit. 

Tih. Talk, Why shoulde I feare you ? I have not so little vi^it, 
Ye are but a man I knowe very well. 105 

R, Royster, Why then ? 

Tib, Talk, Forsooth for I wyll not, I use not to kisse men. 

R. Royster, I would faine kisse you too good maiden, if I myght. 

Tib, Talk, What shold that neede ? 

R, Royster, But to honor you by this light. 

I use to kisse all them that I love[,] to God I vowe. 

Tib. Talk. Yea sir ? I pray you when dyd ye last kisse your 
cowe.i no 

R. Royster. Ye might be proude to kisse me, if ye were wise. 

Tib. Talk. What promotion were therein ? 

R. Royster. Nourse is not so nice.^ 

Tib. Talk. Well I have not bene taught to kissing and licking. 

R. Royster. Yet I thanke you mistresse Nourse, ye made no stick- 
ing. 

M. Mumbl. I will not sticke for a kosse with such a man as 
you. 115 

Tib, Talk. They that lust : I will againe to my sewyng now. 

An, Alyfac\e., re-entering]. Tidings hough, tidings, dame Custance 
greeteth you well. 

R. Royster, Whome me ? 

An, Alyface, You sir ? no sir ? I do no suche tale tell. 

R. Royster, But and she knewe me here. 

An, Alyface, Tybet Talke apace. 

Your mistresse Custance and mine, must speake with your 
grace. 

Tib, Talk, With me ? 

An, Alyface, Ye muste come in to hir out of all doutes. 

Tib, Talk, And my work not half done ? A mischief on all 
loutes. Ex\eant'\ am[bae.'] 

R, Royster, Ah good sweet nourse [!] 

M. Mumb, A good sweete gentleman [!] 

1 Cf. G. G. N. V. 211 ; Heywood, Prov. 2, ch. 7; Camden, Prov. 268, 

2 mincing, coy. 



sc. 



Ill] Roister Doister 123 



R. Royster. What ? 

M, MumbL Nay I can not tel sir, but what thing would' you ? 
R. Royster. Howe dothe sweete Custance, my heart of gold, tel\ 
me [,] how ? 1 25 

M. Mut?ibl. She dothe very well sir, and commaunde me to you. 
R, Royster. To me ? 
M. Mumhl. Yea to you sir. 
R. Royster. To me ? nurse tel me plain 

To me ? 
M. Mumh. Ye. 

R. Royster. That word maketh me alive again. 
M. Mumhl. She commaunde me to one last day who ere it was. 
R. Royster. That was een to me and none other by the Masse. 130 
M. Mumhl. I can not tell you surely, but one it was. 
R. Royster. It was I and none other : this commeth to good passe. 

I promise thee nourse I favour hir. 
M. Mumh. Een so sir. 
R. Royster. Bid hir sue to me for manage. 

M. Mumhl. Een so sir. B iv ^ 

R. Royster. And surely for thy sake she shall speede. 135 

M. Mumh. Een so sir. 

R. Royster. I shall be contented to take hir. 
M. Mumh. Een so sir. 

R. Royster. But at thy request and for thy sake. 
M. Mumh. Een so sir. 

R. Royster. And come hearke in thine eare what to say. 
M. Mumh. Een so sir. 

Here lette him tell hir a great long tale in hir eare?- 

1 Cf. the whispering scene in the Trial of Treasure. 



124 Roister Doister 



ACT. 1 



Actus, i. Scaena. iiii. 

Mathew Merygreeke. Dobinet Doughtie. Harpax \jind Musitiam 

entering]. Ralph Royster. Margerie Mumblecrust [///// o;? 

the scene, whispering]. 

M. Mery. Come on sirs apace, and quite your selves like men, 

Your pains shalbe rewarded. 
D. Dou. But I wot not when. 

M. Mery. Do your maister worship as ye have done in time past. 
D. Dough. Speake to them : of mine office he shall have a cast. 
M. Mery. Harpax^ looke that thou doe well too, and thy fellow. 5 
Harpax. I warrant, if he will myne example folowe. 
M. Mery. Curtsie whooresons, douke you and crouche at every 

worde, 
D. Dough. Yes whether our maister speake earnest or horde. 
M. Mery. For this lieth upon his preferment in deede. 
D. Dough. Oft is hee a wower, but never doth he speede. 10 

M. Mery. But with whome is he nowe so sadly roundyng yond } 
D. Dough. With Nobs nicehecetur miserere ^ fonde. 
\_M.] Mery ^approaching R. R.] . God be at your wedding, be ye 
spedde alredie ? 

I did not suppose that your love was so greedie, 

I perceive nowe ye have chose ^ of devotion, 15 

And joy have ye ladie of your promotion. 
R. Royster. Tushe foole, thou art deceived, this is not she. 
M. Mery. Well mocke ^ muche of hir, and keepe hir well I vise ^ 

.ye. 

I will take no charge of such a faire piece keeping. 
M. Mumbl. What ayleth thys fellowe ? he driveth me to weep- 
ing. ' 20 

1 Cf. the slave of Polymachaeroplagides in Plaut. Pseudolus. 

2 Hazlitt : intentional nonsense for * nobis miscebetur [!] miserere.^ Liturgical words mut- 
tered indistinctly and used here jocosely. Heywood : ** betweene you and your Ginifinee 
Nycebecetur^' [Pro-v. i, ch. II, p. 57 = < What's her name ? ' Nescio quid dicitur f). 

8 Cf. 'spoke,' V. V, 5 ; and *take,' III. iii, 135, 

* make (Hazlitt). 6 avise, advise. 



sc. iiii] • Roister Doister 125 

M. Mery. What weepe on the weddyng day ? be merrie woman, 

Though I say it, ye have chose a good gentleman. 
R. Royster. Kocks nownes ^ what meanest thou man[?] tut a 

whistle 2 [!] 
\_M. i^ery.]^ Ah sir, be good to hir, she is but a gristle,* C i 

Ah sweete lambe and coney. 25 

R. Royster. Tut thou art deceived. 
M. Mery. Weepe no more lady, ye shall be well received. 

Up wyth some mery noyse sirs, to bring home the bride.^ 
R. Royster. Gogs armes knave, art thou madde ? I tel thee thou 

art wide.^ 
M. Mery. Then ye entende by nyght to have hir home brought. 
R. Royster. I tel thee no. 30 

M. Mery. How then ? 
R. Royster. Tis neither ment ne thought. 
M. Mery. What shall we then doe with hir? 
R. Royster. Ah foolish harebraine. 

This is not she. 
M. Mery. No is ? ^ why then unsayde againe, 

And what yong girle is this with your mashyp so bolde ? 
R. Royster. A girle ? 

M. Mery. Yea. I dare say, scarce yet three score yere old. 34 
R. Royster. This same is the faire widowes nourse of whome ye wotte. 
M. Mery. Is she but a nourse of a house ? hence home olde trotte, 

Hence at once. 
R. Royster. No, no. 
M. Mery. What an please your maship 

A nourse talke so homely ^ with one of your worship ? 

1 R.'s oaths are generally not so strong ; I count in G. G. N. 48 oaths beginning with, By 
Gog's, Cocks, etc. 

2 For the rhyme's sake j cf. Wilson's Rhetorique, 202 : Reticencioy A whisht or warning 
to speake no more. 

3 These lines are assigned to R. in E. 

* Cf. Sherwood : Grison, gray with age, . . . grizle. 

5 This part of the scene is the reverse of Plaut. Miles, v. 1 000 seq., where Pal. has diffi- 
culties in keeping Pyrg. from falling in love with the servant. 

« Cf. G. G. N. p. 252. 

'^ * Is it not she?' cf. v. 88; II. iv, 14. Elliptical construction, cf. Heywood, yoban, 
11. 26 and 624. 8 friendly (Cotgr. ). 



1 26 Roister Doister • [act. i 

R. Royster. I will have it so : it is my pleasure and will. 39 

M. Mery. Then I am content. Nourse come againe, tarry still. 
R. Royster. What, she will helpe forward this my sute for hir part, 
M. Mery. Then ist mine owne pygs nie,^ and blessing on my 

hart. 
R. Royster. This is our best friend [,] man[!] 
M. Mery. Then teach hir what to say [!] 
M. Mumbl. I am taught alreadie. 
M. Mery. Then go, make no delay. 

R. Royster. Yet hark one word in thine eare. 45 

M. Mery \_Dobinet^ etc.^ press on Royster., who pushes them hack"] . Back 

sirs from his taile. 
R. Royster. Backe vilaynes, will ye be privie of my counsaile.? 
M. Mery. Backe sirs, so : I tolde you afore ye woulde be shent. 
R. Royster. She shall have the first day a whole pecke of argent. 
M. Mu?nbl. A pecke ? Nomine patris [crossing herself^ , have ye so 

much spare ? 2 
R. Royster. Yea and a carte lode therto, or else were it bare, 50 

Besides other movables, housholde stufFe and lande. 
M. Mumbl. Have ye lands too. 
R. Royster. An hundred marks. 
M. Mery. Yea a thousand 

M. Mumbl. And have ye cattell too ? and sheepe too ? 
R. Royster. Yea a fewe. 
M. Mery. He is ashamed the numb re of them to shewe. 

Een rounde about him, as many thousande sheepe goes, 55 

As he and thou and I too, have fingers and toes. 
M. Mumbl. And how many yeares olde be you ? 
R. Royster. Fortie at lest. 

M. Mery. Yea and thrice fortie to them. C i b 

R. Royster. Nay now thou dost jest. 

I am not so olde, thou misreckonest my yeares. 59 

M. Mery. I know that : but my minde was on bullockes and steeres. 
M. Mumbl. And what shall I shewe hir your masterships name is ? 
R. Royster. Nay she shall make sute ere she know that ywis. 
M. Mumbl. Yet let me somewhat knowe. 

1 Cf. Chaucer's Miller^ Tale, 3268, Skelton, etc. 2 c., < to ' spare. 



sc. 



iin] Roister Doister 127 



M, Mery. This is hee[,] understand, 

That killed the blewe Spider ^ in Blanchepouder^ lande. 

M. Mumbl. Yea Jesus\}:] William [!] zee law[!] dyd he zo[?] 
law[!] 65 

M. Mery. Yea and the last Elephant ^ that ever he sawe, 
As the beast passed by, he start out of a buske,* 
And een with pure strength of armes pluckt out his great tuske. 

M. Mumbl. Jesus^ nomine patris [crossing herself\ , what a thing was 
that ? 

R. Roister. Yea but Merygreke one thing thou hast forgot. 70 

M. Mery. What ? 

R. Royster. Of thother Elephant. 

M. Mery. Oh hym that fledde away. 

R. Royster. Yea. 

M. Mery. Yea he knew that his match was in place that day 
Tut, he bet the king of Crickets ^ on Christmasse day, 
That he crept in a hole, and not a worde to say. 

M. Mumbl. A sore man by zembletee.^ 75 

M. Mery. Why, he wrong a club 

Once in a fray out of the hande of Belzebub. 

R. Royster. And how when Mumfision ? 

M, Mery. Oh your coustrelyng ^ 

Bore the lanterne a fielde so before the gozelyng. 
Nay that is to long a matter now to be tolde : 
Never aske his name Nurse, I warrant thee, be bolde, 80 

He conquered in one day from Rome., to Naples^ 
And woonne Townes[,] nourse[,] as fast as thou canst make 
Apples. 

1 Cf. the first scene in Plaut. Miles. Instead of the blue spider, etc., Thersites kills Cots- 
iroXA Lions, fights against a snail, as Horribilicribrifax against a cat, and Sir Thopas (in 
^ndymion) against the 'monster' Ovis. 

2 Pouldre blanche : a powder compounded of Ginger, Cinnamon, and Nutmegs (Cot- 
grave). Cf. Blauncbe laund in the Story of Fulk Fitz TFarine ; the Lady of Blanchland in 
the poem on Carle off Carlile in Percy's Folio Ms. 3, 279, etc. 

8 Cf Plaut. Miles^ I. i, 26. * Northern dialect for <bush.' 

6 In the series of the 'blue spider' and the 'gozeling.' Cf. "the King of Cockneys on 
Childermas-day,'''' Brand's Pop. Ant. I, 536, etc. 

* by the holy blood ? (Hazlitt : quasi semblety, semblance.) 

7 Cf. Custrel in Phil. Soc. Diet., Coustillier in Cotgr. 



128 Roister Doister 



[act. 



M. Mumbl. O Lorde, my heart quaketh for feare : he is to sore. 
R. Royster. Thou makest hir to much afearde, Merygreeke no more. 

This tale woulde feare my sweete heart Custance right evill. 
M. Mery. Nay let hir take him Nurse, and feare not the devill. 86 

But thus is our song dasht. \To the musicians^ Sirs ye may 
home againe. 
R. Royster. No shall they not. I charge you all here to remaine : 

The villaine slaves [!] a whole day ere they can be founde. 
M, Mery. Couche on your marybones whooresons, down to the 
ground [!]^ 90 

Was it meete he should tarie so long in one place 

Without harmonic of Musike, or some solace ? C ii 

Who so hath suche bees as your maister in hys head, 

Had neede to have his spirites with Musike to be fed. 

By your maisterships licence \_picktng something from his coat'j . 
R. Royster. What is that ? a moate ? 96 

M. Mery. No it was a fooles feather ^ had light on your coate. 
R. Roister. I was nigh no feathers since I came from my bed. 
M. Mery. No sir, it was a haire that was fall from your hed. 
R. Roister. My men com when it plese them. 
M. Mery. By your leve. 
R. Roister. What is that ? 

M. Mery. Your gown was foule spotted with the foot of a gnat. 1 00 
R. Roister. Their maister to offende they are nothing afearde. 

What now ? 
M. Mery. A lousy haire from your masterships beard. 

Omnes famul\j\ . ^ And sir for Nurses sake pardon this one 
offence. 

We shall not after this shew the like negligence. 104 

R. Royster. I pardon you this once, and come sing nere the wurse. 
M. Mery. How like you the goodnesse of this gentleman [,] nurse ? 

1 Here follows a farcical scene, doubtlessly inserted for the applause of the galleries. The 
musicians are supposed to kneel in mock reverence (v. 90), while M. indulges in practical 
jokes upon R. 

2 A picture of such a 'fool's feather,' added to the * comb ' in Douce's Illustrations, II. 
Plate 4, I (cf ib. p. 322). 

^ E.,famu/aej but the maids are not on the stage j v. 107 (his men) shows that the 
musicians are meant. 



II 



sc. mi] Roister Doister 129 

M. Mumhl. God save his maistership that so can his men forgeve, 
And I wyll heare them sing ere I go, by his leave. 

R. Royster. Mary and thou shalt wenche, come we two will daunce. 

M. Mumbl. Nay I will by myne owne selfe foote the song perchaunce. 

R. Royster. Go to it sirs lustily. 1 1 1 

M. Mumbl. Pipe up a mery note, 

Let me heare it playde, I will foote it for a grote. 

Cantent^ 

R. Royster. Now nurse take thys same letter here to thy mistresse. 

And as my trust is in thee plie my businesse. 
M. Mumbl. It shalbe done[!]2 115 

M. Mery. Who made it ? 
R. Royster. I wrote it ech whit. 
M. Mery. Then nedes it no mending. 
R. Royster. No, no. 
M. Mery. No I know your wit. 

I warrant it wel. 
M. Mumb. It shal be delivered. 

But if ye speede, shall I be considered ? 
M. Mery. Whough, dost thou doubt of that ? 

Madge. What shal I have ? 119 

M. Mery. An hundred times more than thou canst devise to crave 
M. Mumbl. Shall I have some newe geare ? for my olde is all spent. 
M. Mery. The worst kitchen wench shall goe in ladies rayment. 
M. Mumbl. Yea ? 
M. Mery. And the worst drudge in the house shal go better 

Than your mistresse doth now. 
Mar. Then I trudge with your letter. \_Exit.'\ 

R. Royster. Now may I repose me : Custance is mine owne. C ii ^ 

Let us sing. and play homeward that it may be knowne. 126 
M. Mery. But are you sure, that your letter is well enough ? 
R. Royster. I wrote it my selfe. 
M. Mery. Then sing we to dinner. 

Here they singt and go out singing, 

1 Cantent refers apparently to the Seconde Song at the end of the play. * £, hag < p ', 



130 Roister Doister [act. i., sc. v 

Actus. 1. Scaena. v. 

Christian Custance. Margerie Mumblecrust. 

C. Custance. Who tooke ^ thee thys letter Margerie Mumblecrust ? 

M. Mumhl. A lustle gay bacheler tooke it me of trust, 
And if ye seeke to him he will lowe 2 your doing. 

C. Custance. Yea, but where learned he that manner of wowing ? 

M. Mumhl. If to sue to hym, you will any paines take, 5 

He will have you to his wife (he sayth) for my sake. 

C. Custance. Some wise gentlemen belike. I am bespoken ^ : 
And I thought verily thys had bene some token 
From my dere spouse* Gawin Goodluck, whom when him 

please 
God luckily sende home to both our heartes ease. 10 

M. Mumhl. A joyly ^ man it is I wote well by report. 
And would have you to him for marriage resort : 
Best open the writing, and see what it doth speake. 

C. Custance. At thys time nourse I will neither reade ne breake. 

M. Mumhl. He promised to give you a whole pecke of golde. 15 

C. Custance. Perchaunce lacke of a pynte when it shall be all tolde. 

M. Mumhl. I would take a gay riche husbande, and I were you. 

C. Custance. In good sooth Madge, een so would I, if I were thou.^ 
But no more of this fond talke now, let us go in. 
And see thou no more move me folly to begin. 20 

Nor bring mee no mo letters for no mans pleasure, 
But thou know from whom. 

M. Mumhl. I warrant ye shall be sure. 

1 gave. Cf. The Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode : " Take him a gray courser," etc. 

'■^ Cf. *allowe,' V. i, 12; ' chieve,' 'gree,' etc. (C. changes: *loue'). 

8 promised. 

* affianced; cf. IV. i, 17 ; IV iii, 41 j V. ii, 6. 

5 C. , 'ioly' ; cf. ioily, II. iii, 53. 

6 Custance' s quick answer need not be carried back to Parmenio (as by Cooper). 



I 



ACT. II., sc. i] Roister Doister 



31 



> 



Actus, ii. Scaena L* c [iii] 

DOBINET DOUGHTIE. 

D. Dough. Where is the house I goe to, before or behinde ? 
I know not where nor when nor how I shal it iinde. 
If I had ten mens bodies and legs and strength, 
This trotting that I have must needs lame me at length. 
And nowe that my maister is new set on wowyng, 5 

I trust there shall none of us finde lacke of doyng : 
Two paire of shoes a day will nowe be too litle 
To serve me, I must trotte to and fro so mickle. 
Go beare me thys token, carrie me this letter, 
Nowe this is the best way, nowe that way is better. 10 

Up before day sirs, I charge you, an houre or twaine, 
Trudge, do me thys message, and bring worde quicke againe, 
If one misse but a minute, then [H]is armes and woundes^ 
I woulde not have slacked for ten thousand poundes. 
Nay see I beseeche you, if my most trustie page, 15 

Goe not nowe aboute to hinder my manage. 
So fervent hotte wowyng, and so farre from wiving, 
I trowe never was any creature livyng. 
With every woman is he in some loves pang. 
Then up to our lute at midnight, twangledome twang,^ 20 
Then twang with our sonets, and twang with our dumps,* 
And heyhough from our heart, as heavie as lead lumpes : 
Then to our recorder^ with toodleloodle poope 
As the howlet out of an yvie bushe should hoope. 
Anon to our gitterne, thrumpledum, thrumpledum thrum, 25 
Thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum 
thrum. 

1 II. i. A night has passed between the first and the second acts [note the Mast day' in 
y. 46]. The following monologue is distinctly in the spirit of the Roman comedy. The 
signature at the bottom of this page in the E. copy is C v. 

2 E., <his,' and no dashes, but a comma after 'woundes.* 
^ Tiuangillos in Halliwell, Tivango in Fliigel's Diet. 

* An onomatopoetic melody, song 5 cf. Romeo, IV. v, 108, 1 29. * flute. 



132 Roister Doister [act. h 

Of Songs and Balades also is he a maker, 

And that can he as finely doe as lacke Raker,^ C iii b 

Yea and extempore will he dities compose, 

Foolishe Marsias nere made the like I suppose, 30 

Yet must we sing them, as good stufFe I undertake, 

As for such a pen man is well fittyng to make. 

Ah for these long nights, heyhow, when will it be day .? 

I feare ere I come she will be wowed away. 

Then when aunswere is made that it may not bee, 35 

death why commest thou not ? by and by^ (sayth he)[;] 
But then, from his heart to put away sorowe. 

He is as farre in with some newe love next morowe. 

But in the meane season we trudge and we trot. 

From dayspring to midnyght, I sit not, nor rest not. 40 

And now am I sent to dame Christian Custance : 

But I feare it will ende with a mocke for pastance.^ 

1 bring hir a ring, with a token in a cloute, 

And by all gesse, this same is hir house out of doute. 

I knowe it nowe perfect, I am in my right way. 45 

And loe yond the olde nourse that was wyth us last day. 



Actus ii. Scaena ii. 

Mage Mumblecrust. Dobinet Doughtie. 

M. Mumbl. I was nere so shoke * up afore since I was borne, 

That our mistresse coulde not have chid * I wold have sworne : 
And I pray God I die if I ment any harme. 
But for my life time this shall be to me a charme. 
D. Dough. God you save and see nurse, and howe is it with you ? 5 
M. Mumbl. Mary a great deale the worse it is for suche as thou. 

1 Cf. Skelton against Garnesche : " Ye wolde be callyd a maker And make mocke lyke Jake 
Raker" (Dyce : "an imaginary person whose name had become proverbial " for bad verses). 

2 Note ' pastance,' indicating the original pronunciation in the rhyme, III. iii, 151 ; V. ii, 
23 ; where the word is not required for the rhyme we find 'pastime,' V. v, 20, etc. So in 
Henry VIII's famous song. Pastime ivith good companye, we have the word rhyming with 
*daliance,' *daunce.' ^ From time to time. Prompt. Par'v. Gen. Ed. 

* * shoke ' in Shakespeare j * chid ' cf. II. iii, 4. 



sc. 



Ill] Roister Doister 133 



D. Dough, For me ? Why so ? 

M, Mumh. Why wer not thou one of them, say, 

That song and playde here with the gentleman last day ? 
D. Dough. Yes, and he would know if you have for him spoken. 

And prayes you to deliver this ring and token. lO 

M. Mumhl. Nowe by the token that God tokened [,] brother, 

I will deliver no token one nor other. 

I have once ben so shent for your maisters pleasure, C iv 

As I will not be agayne for all hys treasure. 
D. Dough. He will thank you woman. 15 

M. MumhL I will none of his thanke. Ex. 

D. Dough, 1 weene I am a prophete, this geare will prove blanke : ^ 
.. . But what should I home againe without answere go ? 

It were better go to Rome'^ on my head than so. 

I will tary here this moneth, but some of the house 20 

Shall take it of me, and then I care not a louse. 

But yonder commeth forth a wenche or a ladde. 

If he have not one Lumbardes touche,^ my lucke is bad. 



Actus, ii. Scaena. iii. 

Truepenie. D. Dough. Tibet T. Anot Al. 

Trupeny, I am cleane lost for lacke of mery companie. 
We gree not halfe well within, our wenches and I, 
They will commaunde like mistresses, they will forbyd, 
If they be not served, Trupeny must be chyd. 
Let them be as mery nowe as ye can desire, 5 

With turnyng of a hande, our mirth lieth in the mire, 
I can not skill of such chaungeable mettle. 
There is nothing with them but in docke out nettle.* 

1 unsuccessful. 

2 Cf. Hickscorner (Dodsley, I, 1 68): "If any of us three be mayor of London I wis I will 
ride to Rome on my thumb." 

3 touchstone (Cotgr. ). The Lombards famous as bankers 5 ill famed for their " subtyl 
crafft ... to deceyue a gentyl man" (Boorde's Introd.^ p. 186). 

* Cf. Chaucer, Tro/V. 4, 461 ; Heywood, Fronj. 2, ch. i. Reference to the cure of nettle- 
stings by dock-leaves. 



1 34 Roister Doister [act. n 

D. Dough, Whether is it better that I speake to him furst, 

Or he first to me, it is good to cast the wurst. lO 

If I beginne first, he will smell all my purpose, 
Otherwise I shall not neede any thing to disclose. 

Trupeny. What boy have we yonder ? I will see what he is. 
D. Dough. He commeth to me. It is hereabout ywis. 

Trupeny. Wouldest thou ought friende, that thou lookest so about ? 
D. Dough. Yea, but whether ye can helpe me or no, I dout. 1 6 
I seeke to one mistresse Custance house here dwellyng. 

Trupenie. It is my mistresse ye seeke too by your telling. 

D. Dough. Is there any of that name heere but shee ? 

Trupenie. Not one in all the whole towne that I knowe par- 
dee. C iv * 20 

D. Dough. A Widowe she is I trow. 

Trupenie. And what and she be ? 

D. Dough. But ensured to an husbande. 

Trupenie. Yea, so thinke we. 

D. Dough. And I dwell with hir husbande that trusteth to be. 

Trupenie. In faith then must thou needes be welcome to me, 

Let us for acquaintance shake handes togither, 25 

And what ere thou be, heartily welcome hither. 

Tib. Talk. Well Trupenie never but flinging.^ [entering with An.] 

An. Alyface. And frisking ? 

Trupenie. Well Tibet and Annot, still swingyng and whiskyng ? 

Tih. Talk. But ye roile abroade. 

An. Alyface. In the streete evere where. 

Trupenie. Where are ye twaine, in chambers when ye mete me 
there ? 30 

But come hither fooles, I have one nowe by the hande, 
Servant to hym that must be our mistresse husbande, 
Byd him welcome. 

An. Alyface. To me truly is he welcome. 

Tib. Talk. Forsooth and as I may say, heartily welcome. 

D. Dough. I thank you mistresse maides 35 

An. Alyface. I hope we shal better know 

Tib. Talk, And when wil our new master come. 

^ running about. 



sc. hi] Roister Doister 



135 



D. Dough. Shortly I trow. 

Tib. Talk. I would it were to morow : for till he resorte 
Our mistresse being a Widow hath small comforte, 
And I hearde our nourse speake of an husbande to day 
Ready for our mistresse, a riche man and a gay, 40 

And we shall go in our frenche hoodes ^ every day. 
In our silke cassocks (I warrant you) freshe and gay, 
In our tricke^ ferdegews and billiments of golde,^ 
Brave* in our sutes of chaunge seven double folde. 
Then shall ye see Tibet sirs, treade the mosse so trimme, 45 
Nay, why sayd I treade ? ye shall see hir glide and swimme. 
Not lumperdee clumperdee like our spaniell Rig. 

Trupeny. Mary then prickmedaintie ^ come toste me a fig.^ 
Who shall then know our Tib Talke apace trow ye ? 

An. Alyface. And why not Annot Alyface as fyne as she ? 50 

Trupeny. And what had Tom Trupeny, a father or none ? 

An. Alyface. Then our prety newe come man will looke to be one. 

Trupeny. We foure I trust shall be a joily mery knot. 

Shall we sing a fitte to welcome our friende, Annot ? d i 

An. Alyface. Perchaunce he can not sing. 55 

D. Dough. I am at all assayes.^ 

Tib» Talk, By cocke and the better welcome to us alwayes. 

Here they sing, 

A thing very fitte No man complalnyng, 65 

For them that have witte, Nor other disdayning. 

And are felowes knitte For losse or for gainyng, 

Servants in one house to bee, 60 But felowes or friends to bee. 

Is fast fast for to sitte, No grudge remainyng, 

And not oft to flitte, No worke refrainyng, 70 

Nor varie a whitte. Nor helpe restrainyng, 

But lovingly to agree. But lovingly to agree. 

1 Cf. Boorde's Introd., 191, etc. 2 neat. Cf. Ascham, Tox. 28. 

8 E. and A. read: * ferdegews ' ; C. and H. : 'ferdegews.' Is it the same as French: 
Verdugalle (A vardingale, Cotgr. ) ? ib. s.v. Ba-volet : A billiment or head-attire, etc. 
* gay (the earliest quot. in Murray is from 1568). 

^ Cf. Jamieson's Scott. Diet.: Prickmedainty, one who is finical in dress or carriage. 
^ Is this related to ** giving a fig " ? 7 j-eady for every event [Phil. Soc. Diet.). 



136 



Roister Doister 



[act. II 



No man for despite, 

By worde or by write 

His felowe to twite, 75 

But further in honestie. 

No good turnes entwite,^ 

Nor olde sores recite. 

But let all goe quite. 

And lovingly to agree. 80 



After drudgerie. 
When they be werie, 
Then to be merie, 
To laugh and sing they be free 
With chip and cherie 85 

Heigh derie derie. 
Trill on the berie,^ 
And lovingly to agree. 
Finis. 



Tib. Talk. Wyll you now in with us unto our mistresse go ? 

D. Dough. I have first for my maister an errand or two. 90 

But I have here from him a token and a ring. 

They shall have moste thanke of hir that first doth it bring. 
Tib. Talk. Mary that will I. 
Trupeny. See and Tibet snatch not now. 

Tib. Talk. And why may not I sir, get thanks as well as you ? Exeat. 
An. Alyface. Yet get ye not all, we will go with you both. 95 

And have part of your thanks be ye never so loth. 

\^Exeant omnes.'^ 
D. Dough. So my handes are ridde of it : I care for no more. 

I may now return home : so durst I not afore. Exeat. 



Actus, ii. Scaena. iiii. 
C. CusTANCE. Tibet. Annot Alyface. Trupeny. 



D i b 



C. Custance. Nay come forth all three : and come hither pretie 
mayde : 

Will not so many forewarnings make you afrayde ? 
Tib. Talk. Yes forsoth. 
C. Custance. But stil be a runner up and downe 

Still be a bringer of tidings and tokens to towne. 
Tib. Talk. No forsoth mistresse. c 



1 to make a thing a subject for reproach [Phil. Soc. Diet.). 

2 Four Elem. (Dodsley, i, 20). 



sc. mi] Roister Dotster 137 

C. Custance. Is all your delite and joy 

In whiskyng and ramping ^ abroade like a Tom boy. 
Tib. Talk. Forsoth these were there too, Annot and Trupenie. 
Trupenie. Yea but ye alone tooke it, ye can not denie. 
Annot Aly. Yea that ye did. 
Tibet. But if I had not, ye twaine would. 

C. Custance. You great calfe ye should have more witte, so ye 
should : - 10 

.But why shoulde any of you take such things in hande. 
Tibet. Because.it came from him that must be your husbande. 
C. Custance. How do ye know that ? 
Tibet. Forsoth the boy did say so. 
C. Custance. What was his name ? 
An. Alyface. We asked not. 
C. . Custance. No ? ^ 

An. Aliface. He is not farre gone of likelyhod. 15 

Trupeny. I will see. 

C. Custance. If thou canst finde him in the streete bring him to me. 
Trupenie. Yes.. Exeat. 

C. Custance. Well ye naughty girles, if ever I perceive 

That henceforth you do letters or tokens receive, 

To bring unto me from any person or place. 

Except ye first shewe me the partie face to face, 20 

Eyther thou or thou, full truly abye ^ thou shalt. 
Tibet. Pardon this, and the next tyme pouder me in salt. 
C. Custance. I shall make all girles by you twaine to beware. 
Tibet. If ever I ofFende againe do not me spare. 

But if ever I see that false boy any more 25 

By your mistreshyps licence I tell you afore 

I will rather have my cote twentie times swinged, 

Than on the naughtie wag not to be avenged. 
C. Custance. Good wenches would not so rampe abrode ydelly, 

But keepe within doores, and plie their work earnestly, D ii 30 

1 Cf. Cotgr. s,T. Trenon : f. A great raumpe, or tomboy; s.ij Trotiere : f. A raumpe 
. . . raunging damsell, etc. 

2 E., * No did ? ' — * did ' spoils the rhyme. 

^ Cf. Palsgrave, 415 ; I abye, I forthynke or am punished for a thynge, etc. 



138 Roister Doister [act. m 

If one would speake with me that Is a man likely, 

Ye shall have right good thanke to bring me worde quickly. 

But otherwyse with messages to come in post 

From henceforth I promise you, shall be to your cost. 

Get you in to your work. 35 

Tib. An. Yes forsoth. 
C. Custance. Hence both twaine. 

And let me see you play me such a part againe. 

\_Exeant Tib. and Aii.l^ 
Trupeny [entering^ . Maistresse, I have runne past the farre ende of 
the streete, 

Yet can I not yonder craftie boy see nor meete. 
C. Custance. No ? 
Trupeny. Yet I looked as farre beyonde the people. 

As one may see out of the toppe of Paules steeple. 40 

C. Custance. Hence in at doores, and let me no more be vext. 
Trupeny. Forgeve me this one fault, and lay on for the next. 
C. Custance. Now will I in too, for I thinke so God me mende, 

This will prove some foolishe matter in the ende. Exeat, 



Actus. [i]ii. Scaena. 1. 

Mathewe Merygreeke, 

M. Mery. Nowe say thys againe : he hath somewhat to dooing 
Which followeth the trace of one that is wowing. 
Specially that hath no more wit in his hedde. 
Than my cousin Roister Doister withall is ledde. 
I am sent in all haste to espie and to marke 5 

How our letters and tokens are likely to warke. 
Maister Roister Doister must have aunswere in haste 
For he loveth not to spende much labour in waste. 
Nowe as for Christian Custance by this light, 
Though she had not hir trouth to Gawin Goodluck plight, lO 



sc. II] Roister Doister 1 39 

Yet rather than with such a loutishe dolte to marie, 
I dare say woulde lyve a poore lyfe solitarie, 
But fayne woulde I speake with Custance if I wist how 
To laugh at the matter, yond commeth one forth now. 



Actus, iii. Scaena. ii. d u * 

Tibet. M. Merygreeke. Christian Custance. 

Tih, TM. Ah that I might but once in my life have a sight 
Of him that made us all so yll shent by this light. 
He should never escape if I had him by the eare, 
But even from his head, I would it bite or teare. 
Yea and if one of them were not inowe, 5 

I would bite them both off, I make God avow. 

M. Mery. What is he, whome this little mouse doth so threaten ? 

Tih. Talk. I woulde teache him I trow, to make girles shent or 
beaten. 

M, Mery. I will call hir : Maide with whome are ye so hastie ? 

Tih, Talk. Not with you sir, but with a little wag-pastie, 10 

A deceiver of folkes, by subtill craft and guile. 

M. Mery. I knowe where she is : Dobinet hath wrought some 
wile. 

Tih, Talk, He brought a ring and token which he sayd was sent 
From our dames husbande, but I wot well I was shent : 
For it liked hir as well to tell you no lies, 15 

As water in hir shyppe, or salt cast in hir eies : 
And yet whence it came neyther we nor she can tell. 

M. Mery. We shall have sport anone : I like this very well. 
And dwell ye here with mistresse Custance faire maide ? 

Tih. Talk. Yea mary doe I sir : what would ye have sayd ? 20 

M. Mery. A little message unto hir by worde of mouth. 

Tih. Talk. No messages by your leave, nor tokens forsoth. 

M. Mery. Then help me to speke with hir. 

Tihet. With a good wil that. 

Here she commeth forth. Now speake ye know best what. 



140 Roister Doister [act. 



Ill 



[CusTANCE enters."] 

C. Custance. None other life with you maide, but abrode to skip ? 25 

Tib. Talk. Forsoth here is one would speake with your mistresship.^ 

C. Custance. Ah, have ye ben learning of mo messages now ? 

Tib. Talk. I would not heare his minde, but bad him shewe it to you. 

C... Custance. In at dores. 

Tib. Talk. I am gon. Ex. 

M. Mery. Dame Custance god ye save, : v V 

C. Custance. Welcome friend Merygreeke : and what thing wold 
ye have? Diua 36 

M. Mery. I am come to you a little matter to breake. 
C. Custance. But see it be honest, else better not to speake. 
M. Mery. Howe feele ye your selfe affected here of late ? 
C. Custance. I feele no maner chaunge but after the olde rate. 

But whereby do ye meane ? 35 

M. Mery. Concerning mariage. 

Doth not love lade you ? 
C. Custance. I feele no such cariage.^ 

M. Mery. Doe ye feele no pangues of dotage ? aunswere me right. 
C. Custance. I dote so, that I make but one sleepe all the night 

But what neede all these wordes ? 
M. Mery. Oh Jesus, will ye see 

What dissemblyng creatures these same women be ? 40 

■' The gentleman ye wote of, whome ye doe so love. 

That ye woulde fayne marrie him, yf ye durst it move, 
i . - Emong other riche widowes, which are of him glad. 

Lest ye for lesing of him perchaunce might runne mad, 

Is nowe contented that upon your sute making, 45 

Ye be as one in election of taking. 
C. Custance. What a tale is this ? that I wote of ? whome I love ? 
M. Mery. Yea and he is as loving a worme againe as a dove, 

Een of very pitie he is willyng you to take, 

Bicause ye shall not destroy your selfe for his sake. 50 

C. Custance. Mary God yelde his mashyp what ever he be. 

It is gentmanly spoken. 

1 Cf. II. iv, 26. 2 Wrong signature in E., D, v. *' lurden. 



t 



sc. 



ii] Roister Doister 141 



M. Mery. Is it not trowe ye ? 

If ye have the grace now to ofFer your self, ye speede. 
C. Custance. As muche as though I did, this time it shall not neede, 

But what gentman is it, I pray you tell me plaine, 55 

That woweth so finely ? 
M. Mery, Lo where ye be againe. 

As though ye knewe him not. 
C. Custance. Tush ye speake in jest. 
M, Mery. Nay sure, the partie is in good knacking^ earnest. 

And have you he will (he sayth) and have you he must. 
C. Custance. I am promised duryng my life, that is just. 60 

M. Mery. Mary so thinketh he, unto him alone. 
C. Custance. No creature hath my faith and trouth but one, 

That is Gawin Goodlucke : and if it be not hee. 

He hath no title this way what ever he be, D iii * 

Nor I know none to whome I have such worde spoken. 65 
M. Mery. Ye knowe him not [,] you [,] by his letter and token [!] 
C. Custance. In dede true it is, that a letter I have. 

But I never reade it yet as God me save. 
M. Mery. Ye a woman ? and your letter so long unredde. 
C. Custance. Ye may therby know what hast I have to wedde. 70 

But now who it is, for my hande I knowe by gesse. 
M. Mery. Ah well I say. 
C. Custance. It is Roister Doister doubtlesse. 
M. Mery. Will ye never leave this dissimulation ? 

Ye know hym not. 
C. Custance. But by imagination. 

For no man there is but a very dolt and loute 75 

That to wowe a Widowe woulde so go about. 

He shall never have me hys wife while he doe live. 
M. Mery. Then will he have you if he may, so mote I thrive, 

And he biddeth you sende him worde by me. 

That ye humbly beseech him, ye may his wife be, 80 

And that there shall be no let in you nor mistrust, 

But to be wedded on Sunday next if he lust. 

And biddeth you to looke for him. 

1 Cf. Appius and Virg. (Dodsley, 4, 121 ) : " it's time to be knacking," etc. 



142 Roister Doister [act. m 

C, Custance, Doth he byd so ? 

M. Mery, When he commeth, aske hym whether he did or no ? 

C. Custance. Goe say, that I bid him keepe him warme at home 85 

For if he come abroade, he shall cough me a mome.^ 

My mynde was vexed, I shrew his head sottish dolt. 

M. Mery. He hath in his head [ ]2 

C. Custance. As much braine as a burbolt.^ 

M. Mery. Well dame Custance, if he heare you thus play choploge.^ 

C. Custance. What will he ? 90 

M. Mery. Play the devill in the horologe.^ 

C. Custance. I defye him loute. 

M. Mery. Shall I tell hym what ye say ? 

C. Custance. Yea and adde what so ever thou canst, I thee pray. 

And I will avouche it what so ever it bee. 
M. Mery. Then let me alone we will laugh well ye shall see. 

It will not be long ere he will hither resorte. 95 

C, Custance. Let hym come when hym lust, I wishe no better 
sport. 

Fare ye well, I will in, and read my great letter. 

I shall to my wower make answere the better. Exeat. d iv 



Actus, iii. Scaena. iii. 
Mathew Merygreeke. Roister Doister. 

M. Mery. Nowe that the whole answere in my devise doth rest, 
I shall paint out our wower in colours of the best. 
And all that I say shall be on Custances mouth. 
She is author of all that I shall speake forsoth. 

1 he will show what a fool he is ; cf. Skelton, 2, 254 : *' thou wylte coughe me a dawe " 
(a fole, etc.). 2 £ Jiag ^ period. 

3 Cf. Palsgr. : Byrde bolt matteras ; Cotgrave, s.v. * Matteras ' ... a quarrell [arrow] 
without feathers, ... a light-brain' d . . . fellow. 

* See Udall's Apophthegms ( i 542, apud Murray) : " chop-loguers or great pratlers." The 
word originated in Protestant derision of the * tropological ' and 'anagogical ' senses of the scholas- 
tics ; cf. Tindale on the four senses of Scripture {^Obedience of a Christian Man, 304, 307, 
308) : "we must seek out some chopological sense." 

^ Cf. Heywood, Pro-v. 2, ch. 4 (109) ; 300 Epigrams, p. 149, etc. 



sc. 



Ill] Roister Doister 143 



But yond commeth Roister Doister nowe in a traunce. 5 

K, Royster. 'Ju7io sende me this day good lucke and good chaunce. 

I can not but come see how Merygreeke doth speede. 
M. Mery \aside\ . I will not see him, but give him a jutte in deede.^ 

I crie your mastershyp mercie[!] [running hard into him] 

R. Royster. And whither now ? 
M. Mery. As fast as I could runne sir in post against you. 10 

But why speake ye so faintly, or why are ye so sad ? 
R. Royster. Thou knowest the proverbe, bycause I can not be had. 

Hast thou spoken with this woman ? 
M. Mery. Yea that I have. 
R, Royster. And what will this geare be ? 
M. Mery. No so God me save. 

R. Royster. Hast thou a flat answer? 15 

M. Mery. Nay a sharp answer. 
R. Royster. What 
M. Mery. Ye shall not (she sayth) by hir will marry hir cat. 

Ye are such a calfe, such an asse, such a blocke. 

Such a lilburne,2 such a hoball,^ such a lobcocke,* 

And bicause ye shoulde come to hir at no season. 

She despised your maship out of all reason. 20 

Bawawe^ what ye say (ko I) of such a jentman. 

Nay I feare him not (ko she) doe the best he can. 

He vaunteth him selfe for a man of prowesse greate. 

Where as a good gander I dare say may him beate. 

And where he is louted^ and laughed to skorne, 25 

For the veriest dolte that ever was borne. 

And veriest lubber, sloven and beast. 

Living in this worlde from the west to the east : D iv ^ 

Yet of himselfe hath he suche opinion. 

That in all the worlde is not the like minion.^ 30 

1 To hit, or run against (Baret, 1580, cf. Hall). 2 heavy, stupid fellow (Halliwell). 

3 Cf. Sherwood : a Hob (or clowne). * lubber. 

^ Cf. Baw ! as an exclamation of contempt, repudiation, in Pierce Ploivm.^ C. 13, 74, 22, 
398 (''still used in Lancashire as an interjection of contempt and abhorrence," Whitaker, 
1813, cf Skeat). 6 humiliated ; Shak., i Hen. VI. (IV. iii, 13). 

"^ not only the lover, sweetheart, etc., but also the flatterer, favorite (of a prince), despicable 
creature (cf. Cotgr. ). 



1 44 Roister Doister [act. m 

He thinketh eche woman to be brought in dotage 

With the onely sight of his goodly personage : 

Yet none that will have hym : we do hym loute and flocke,^ 

And make him among us, our common sporting stocke, 

And so would I now (ko she) save onely bicause, 35 

Better nay (ko I) I lust not medle with dawes. 

Ye are happy (ko I) that ye are a woman, 

This would cost you your life in case ye were a man. 

K. Royster, Yea an hundred thousand pound should not save hir 
life. 

M. Mery. No but that ye wowe hir to have hir to your wife, 40 
But I coulde not stoppe hir mouth. 

R. Royster. Heigh how alas, 

M. Mery. Be of good cheere man, and let the worlde passe.^ 

R. Royster. What shall I doe or say nowe that it will not bee. 

M. Mery. Ye shall have choice of a thousande as good as shee. 

And ye must pardon hir, it is for lacke of witte. 45 

R. Royster. Yea, for were not I an husbande for hir fitte ? 
Well what should I now doe ? 

M. Mery. In faith I can not tell. 

R. Royster. I will go home and die. 

M. Mery. Then shall I bidde toll the bell ? 

R. Royster. No. 

M. Mery. God have mercie on your soule, ah good gentleman, 

That er ye shuld th [u] s dye for an unkinde woman, 50 

Will ye drinke once ere ye goe. 

R. Royster. No, no, I will none. 

M. Mery. How feele ^ you*- soule to God. 

R. Royster. I am nigh gone. 

M. Mery. And shall we Jience streight ? 

R. Royster. Yea. 

M. Mery. Placebo dilexi. 

1 a Latinism (^fiocdfacere') ; used also in Udall's Paraphr. to Luke (1545 ; see Phil. Soc. 
Diet.). 

2 Cf. Totuneley Myst., loi, and Trial of Treasure ; *wynde,' Four Elem. ; " let the world 
' slide,' ' ' ff^it and Science. 

3 A translation from the Latin Ordo ad visitandum injirmum {^interroget eum episcopus, 
quomodo credat in deum, Maskell, Mon. Rit.j i, 89). 



sc. Ill] Roister Doister 145 

Maister [R]oister Doister will streight go home and die. ut 

infra} 54 

K, Royster. Heigh how, alas, the pangs of death my hearte do breake. 

M. Mery. Holde your peace for shame sir, a dead man may not 

speake. 

Nequando : What mourners and what torches shall we have ? 
R. Royster. None. 
M. Mery. Dirige. He will go darklyng to his grave, 

Neque^ lux^ neque crux^ neque mourners, neque clinke. 

He will steale to heaven, unknowing to God I thinke. 60 

A porta inferi^ who shall your goodes possesse ? 
R, Royster. Thou shalt be my sectour,^ and have all more and 
lesse. E i 

M, Mery. Requiem ceternam. Now God reward your mastershyp. 

And I will crie halfepenie doale for your worshyp. 

Come forth sirs, heare the dolefuU newes I shall you 

tell. Evocat servos militis, 65 

Our good maister here will no longer with us dwell, 

But in spite of Custance, which hath hym weried. 

Let us see his mashyp solemnely buried. 

And while some piece of his soule is yet hym within. 

Some part of his funeralls let us here begin. 70 

Audiui vocem^ All men take heede by this one gentleman, 

Howe you sette your love upon an unkinde woman. 

For these women be all such madde pievishe elves. 

They will not be wonne except it please them selves. 

But in fayth Custance if ever ye come in hell, 75 

Maister Roister Doister shall serve you as well. 

And will ye needes go from us thus in very deede ? 

R. Royster. Yea in good sadnesse [!] 

M. Mery. Now Jesus Christ be your speede. 

Good night Roger olde knave, farewell Roger olde knave, 
Good night Roger ^ olde knave, knave knap. ut infra.^ 

Pray for the late maister Roister Doisters soule, 81 

And come forth parish Clarke, let the passing bell toll. 

1 On this Mock Requiem see p. i86 and Appendix E. 2 executor. 

^ Cf. Sherwood : Roger bon temps^ a mad rascall, a merry greek. * See p. 187. 



146 Roister Doister [act. 



Ill 



Pray for your mayster sirs, and for hym ring a peale. Ad servos 

He was your right good maister while he was in heale. miiitis. 

^ui Laxarum, 85 

R. Royster. Heigh how. 
M. Mery. Dead men go not so fast 

In Par a di sum. « 87 

R. Royster. Heihow. 
M. Mery. Soft, heare what I have cast^ 
R. Royster. I will heare nothing, I am past. 
M. Mery. Whough, wellaway. 

Ye may tarie one houre, and heare what I shall say, 90 

Ye were best sir for a while to revive againe, 

And quite them er ye go. 
R. Royster. Trowest thou so.? 
M. Mery. Ye plain. 

R. Royster. How may I revive being nowe so farre past .? 
M. Mery. I will rubbe your temples, and fette you againe at last. 
R. Royster. It will not be possible. 95 

M. Mery [rubbing R.'s temples roughly']. Yes for twentie pounde. 
R. Royster. Armes[!] ^ what dost thou ? 
M. Mery. Fet you again out of your sound ^ 

By this crosse ye were nigh gone in deede, I might feele 

Your soule departing within an inche of your heele. E i ^ 

Now folow my counsell. 
R. ^oyster. What is it ? 
M. Mery. If I wer you, 

Custance should eft seeke to me, ere I woulde bowe. lOO 

R. Royster. Well, as thou wilt have me, even so will I doe. 
M. Mery. Then shall ye revive againe for an houre or two. 
R. Royster. As thou wilt I am content for a little space. 
M. Mery. Good happe is not hastie:* yet in space com[e]th 
grace,^ 

To speake with Custance your selfe shoulde be very well, 105 

What good therof may come, nor I, nor you can tell. 

^ Cf. I. ii, 181 5 I. iv, 45 II. iii, 10, etc. ^ swoon. 

2 by God's Armes ! * Cf. I. iii, II, 14. 

fi Heywood, Pro-v. 1, ch. 4 (17) 5 Camden's Pro'v., 271. 



sc. Ill] Roiiter Doister 



147 



I 



But now the matter standeth upon your mariage, 

Ye must now take unto you a lustie courage.^ 

Ye may not speake with a faint heart to Custance, 

But with a lusty breast 2 and countenance, no 

That she may knowe she hath to answere to a man. 

R. Royster. Yes I can do that as well as any can. 

M. Mery. Then bicause ye must Custance face to face wowe, 
Let us see how to behave your selfe ye can doe. 
Ye must have a portely bragge after your estate. 115 

R. Roister. Tushe, I can handle that after the best rate. 

M. Mery. Well done, so loe, up man with your head and chin. 
Up with that snoute man : so loe, nowe ye begin. 
So, that is somewhat like, but[,] prankie^ cote, nay[,] 

whan[!] 
That is a lustie brute,^ handes under your side man: 120 

So loe, now is it even as it shoulde^ bee, 
That is somewhat like, for a man of your degree. 
Then must ye stately goe, jetting^ up and downe. 
Tut, can ye no better shake the taile of your gowne ? 
There loe, such a lustie bragge it is ye must make. 125 

R. Royster. To come behind, and make curtsie, thou must som 
pains take. 

M. Mery. Else were I much to blame, I thanke your mastershyp[,] 7 
The lorde one day[ — ]all to begrime you with wor- 
shyp, \_M. pushes violently against R.'] 

Backe sir sauce,^ let gentlefolkes have elbowe roome, 
Voyde sirs, see ye not maister Roister Doister come ? 130 

Make place my maisters. \_Knocks against R.'] 

R. Royster. Thou justlest nowe to nigh. 

M. Mery. Back al rude loutes. E ii 

1 H. makes the rhyme ' carriage.' 

2 voice ? or rather courage. 

2 Cf. Palsgr. p. 664: set the plyghtes in order. 
* gallant ; cf. I. ii, 1 24, and the Fourth Song^ v. 7. 
^ A. has * should.' 

6 Cf. Palsgr. 589 : I jette with facyon and countenaunce to set forthe my selfe. ye 
braggue, etc. 

"^ E. has no punctuation after ' mastershyp ' or < lord ' j A. has a period after the former. 
^ impudent fellow ! 



148 Roister Doisier [act. m 

R, Royster, Tush. 

M. Mery. I crie your maship mercy 

Hoighdagh, if faire fine mistresse Custance sawe you now, 
Ralph Royster Doister were hir owne I warrant you. 

R. Royster. Neare ^ an M by your girdle ? ^ 135 

M, Mery. Your good mastershyps 

Maistershyp, were hir owne Mistreshyps mistreshyps, 

Ye were take^ up for haukes, ye were gone, ye were gone. 

But now one other thing more yet I thinke upon. 

R, Royster. Shewe what it is. 

Jid. Mery. A wower be he never so poore 

Must play and sing before his bestbeloves doore, 140 

How much more than you ? 

R. Royster. Thou speakest wel out of dout. 

M. Mery. And perchaunce that woulde make hir the sooner come 
out. 

R. Royster. Goe call my Musitians, bydde them high apace. 

M. Mery. I wyll be here with them ere ye can say trey ace.* Exeat. 

R. Royster. This was well sayde of Merrygreeke, I lowe hys 
wit, 145 

Before my sweete hearts dore we will have a fit[,] 
That if my love come forth, that I may with hir talke, 
I doubt not but this geare shall on my side walke. 
But lo, how well Merygreeke is returned sence. 

M. Mery [returning with the musicians^ . There hath grown no 
grasse on my heele since I went hence, 150 

Lo here have I brought that shall make you pastance. 

R. Royster. Come sirs let us sing to winne my deare love Custance. 

Cantent.^ 

M. Mery, Lo where she commeth, some countenaunce to hir make. 
And ye shall heare me be plaine with hir for your sake. 154 

1 never. 

2 Cf. Halliwell : to keep the term ' master ' out of sight, to be wanting in proper respect. 
[M. makes good his carelessness in the next verses !J 

3 Cf. 'chose,' I. iv, 15. 

* In a ' treyce ' j the French way of counting in games ; cf. ambi ace^ syce ace^ etc. 

* This seems to refer to the ' Fourth Song ' at the end of the play. 



sc. nil] Roister Doister 149 

Actus, ill. Scaena. iiii. 
CusTANCE. Merygreeke. Roister Doister. 

C. Custance. What gaudyng^ and foolyng is'this afore my doore ? 

M. Mery. May not folks be honest, pray you, though they be pore ? 

C. Custance, As that thing may be true, so rich folks may be fooles, 

R. Royster. Hir talke is as fine as she had learned in schooles. 

M, Mery. Looke partly towarde hir, and drawe a little nere. E ii ^ 

C. Custance. Get ye home idle folkes. 6 

M, Mery. Why may not we be here ? 

Nay and ye will haze,^ haze : otherwise I tell you plaine. 
And ye will not haze, then give us our geare againe. 

C. Custance. In deede I have of yours much gay things God save all. 

R. Royster. Speake gently unto hir, and let hir take all. lo 

M. Mery. Ye are to tender hearted : shall she make us dawes ? 
Nay dame, I will be plaine with you in my friends cause. 

R. Royster. Let all this passe sweete heart and accept my service.^ 

C. Custance. I will not be served with a foole in no wise. 

When I choose an husbande I hope to take a man. 15 

M. Mery. And where will ye finde one which can doe that he can ? 
Now thys man towarde you being so kinde. 
You not to make him an answere somewhat to his minde. 

C. Custance. I sent him a full answere by you dyd I not ? 

M. Mery. And I reported it. 20 

C. Custance. Nay I must speake it againe. 

R. Royster. No no, he tolde it all. 

M. Mery. Was I not metely plaine ? 

R. Royster. Yes. 

M, Mery. But I would not tell all, for faith if I had 

With you dame Custance ere this houre it had been bad, 

And not without cause : for this goodly personage, 

Ment no lesse than to joyne with you in mariage. 25 

1 As early as the Promptorium Parvulorum : Gawde or jape = Nuga. 

2 C., *have us.' 8 E., <semice.' 



i^o Roister Doister [act. m 

C. Custance. Let him wast no more labour nor sute about me. 

M. Mery. Ye know not where your preferment lieth I see, 
He sending you such a token, ring and letter. 

C. Custance. Mary here it is, ye never sawe a better. 

M. Mery. Let us see your letter. 30 

C. Custance. Holde, reade it if ye can. 

And see what letter it is to winne a woman. 

M. Mery [takes the letter and reads'] . To mine owne deare coney 
birde, swete heart, and pigsny 
Good Mistresse Custance present these by and by. 
Of this superscription do ye blame the stile ? 

C. Custance. With the rest as good stufFe as ye redde a great 
while. 35 

M, Mery. Sweete mistresse where as I love you nothing at all,i 
Regarding your substance and richesse chiefe of all, 
For your personage, beautie, demeanour and wit, 
I commende me unto you never a whit. E Hi 

Sorie to heare report of your good welfare. 40 

For (as I heare say) suche your conditions are, 
That ye be worthie favour of no living man. 
To be abhorred of every honest man. 
To be taken for a woman enclined to vice. 
Nothing at all to Vertue gyving hir due price. 45 

Wherfore concerning mariage, ye are thought 
Suche a fine Paragon, as nere honest man bought. 
And nowe by these presentes I do you advertise 
That I am minded to marrie you in no wise. 
For your goodes and substance, I coulde bee content 50 

To take you as ye are. If ye mynde to bee my wyfe. 
Ye shall be assured for the tyme of my lyfe, 
I will keepe ye ryght well, from good rayment and fare, 
Ye shall not be kepte but in sorowe and care. 
Ye shall in no wyse lyve at your owne libertie, 55 

Doe and sa)' what ye lust, ye shall never please me, 

1 The ambiguous letter finds a pre-Shakespearian parallel in the satirical poem on Women 
printed from Add. Ms. 17492, fol. 18, in Fliigel's Lesebucb^ p. 39 j and in the poem printed 
in Ebert's Jabrbuch^ 14, 214. 



sc. iiii] Roister Doister 1 5 1 

But when ye are mery, I will be all sadde, 

When ye are sory, I will be very gladde. 

When ye seeke your heartes ease, I will be unkinde, 

At no tyme, in me shall ye muche gentlenesse finde. 60 

But all things contrary to your will and minde, 

Shall be done : otherwise I wyll not be behinde 

To speake. And as for all them that woulde do you wrong 

I will so helpe and mainteyne, ye ^ shall not lyve long. 

Nor any foolishe dolte, shall cumbre you but I.2 65 

I, who ere say nay, wyll sticke by you tyll I die. 

Thus good mistresse Custance, the lorde you save and kepe. 

From me Roister Doister, whether I wake or slepe. 

Who favoureth you no lesse, (ye may be bolde) 

Than this letter purporteth, which ye have unfolde. 70 

C Custance. Howe by this letter of love ? is it not fine ? 

R. Royster. By the armes of Caleys ^ it is none of myne. 

M, Mery. Fie you a"^ fowle to blame this is your owne hand. E iii b 

C. Custance. Might not a woman be proude of such an husbande ? 

M. Mery. Ah that ye would in a letter shew such despite. 75 

R. Royster. Oh I would I had hym here, the which did it endite. 

M. Mery. Why ye made it your selfe ye tolde me by this light. 

R. Royster. Yea I ment I wrote it myne owne selfe yesternight. 

C. Custance. Ywis sir, I would not have sent you such a mocke. 

R. Royster. Ye may so take it, but I ment it not so by cocke. 80 

M. Mery. Who can blame this woman to fume and frette and 
rage ? 
Tut, tut, your selfe nowe have marde your owne marriage. 
Well, yet mistresse Custance, if ye can this remitte. 
This gentleman other wise may your love requitte. 84 

C. Custance. No God be with you both, and seeke* no more to 
me. Exeat. 

R. Royster. Wough, she is gone for ever, I shall hir no more see. 

1 Cf. Ill V, 77, where R should have written or inserted * y*V thus obviating the neces- 
sity of resorting to bad grammar — * they ' for * them.' 

2 See Appendix H under * Arber.' 

3 Cf. IV. vii, 48 ; an oath in Skelton's Magnif. 685 (and Boivge, 398). Calais wa« 
lost to the English January 20, 1558. 

^ Cf. V. no, 122 J II. iii, 17, etc. 



152 Roister Doister [act. m 

M. Mery, What weepe ? fye for shame, and blubber ? for manhods 
sake, 

Never lette your foe so muche pleasure of you take. 

Rather play the mans parte, and doe love refraine. 

If she despise you een despise ye hir againe. 90 

R. Royster. By gosse ^ and for thy sake I defye hir in deede. 
M, Mery, Yea and perchaunce that way ye shall much sooner speede. 

For one madde propretie these women have in fey. 

When ye will, they will not : Will not ye, then will they. 

Ah foolishe woman, ah moste unluckie Custance, 95 

Ah unfortunate woman, ah pievishe Custance, 

Art thou to thine harmes so obstinately bent, 

That thou canst not see where lieth thine high preferment ? 

Canst thou not lub^ dis man, which coulde lub dee so well ? 

Art thou so much thine own foe[?] lOO 

R. Royster. Thou dost the truth tell. 
M. Mery. Wei I lament. 
R. Royster. So do 1. 
M. Mery. Wherfor ? 
R. Royster. For this thing 

Bicause she is gone. 
M. Mery. I mourne for an other thing. 

R. Royster. What is it Merygreeke, wherfore thou dost griefe take ? 
M. Mery. That I am not a woman myselfe for your sake, 

I would have you my selfe, and a strawe for yond Gill, 105 

And mocke^ much of you though it were against my will. 

I would not I warrant you, fall in such a rage, E iv 

As so to refuse suche a goodly personage. 
R. Royster. In faith I heartily thanke thee Merygreeke. 
M. Mery. And I were a woman. IIO 

R. Royster. Thou wouldest to me seeke. 
M. Mery. For though I say it, a goodly person ye bee. 
R. Royster. No, no. 

M. Mery. Yes a goodly man as ere I dyd see. 
R. Royster. No, I am a poore homely man as God made mee. 

1 = Gog's. R.'s oaths gain force with his misfortune. 

2 Cf. I. ii, 146. 3 make ; cf. I. iv, i8. 



I 



sc. mi] Roister Doister 1 5 3 

M, Miry. By the faith that I owe to God sir, but ye bee. 

Woulde I might for your sake, spend a thousande pound 
land. 115 

R, Royster. I dare say thou wouldest have me to thy husbande. 

M. Mery. Yea : And I were the fairest lady in the shiere. 
And knewe you as I know you, and see you nowe here. 
Well I say no more. 

R. Royster. Grammercies with all my hart. 

M. Mery. But since that can not be, will ye play a wise parte ? 120 

R. Royster. How should I ? 

M, Mery. Refraine ^ from Custance a while now. 

And I warrant hir soone right glad to seeke to you. 
Ye shall see hir anon come on hir knees creeping. 
And pray you to be good to hir sake teares weeping. 

R. Royster. But what and she come not? 125 

M. Mery. In faith then farewel she. 

Or else if ye be wroth, ye may avenged be. 

R. Royster. By cocks precious potsticke, and een so I shall. 
I wyll utterly destroy hir, and house and all. 
But I woulde be avenged in the meane space. 
On that vile scribler, that did my wowyng disgrace. 130 

M. Mery. Scribler (ko you) in deede he is worthy no lesse. 
I will call hym to you, and ye bidde me doubtlesse. 

R. Royster. Yes, for although he had as many lives. 
As a thousande widowes, and a thousande wives, 
As a thousande lyons, and a thousand rattes, 135 

A thousande wolves, and a thousande cattes, 
A thousande bulles, and a thousande calves. 
And a thousande legions divided in halves. 
He shall never scape death on my swordes point. 
Though I shoulde be torne therfore joynt by joynt 140 

M. Mery. Nay, if ye will kyll him, I will not fette him, E iv ^ 

I will not in so muche extremitie sette him. 
He may yet amende sir, and be an honest man. 
Therefore pardon him good soule, as muche as ye can. 

1 Palaestrio [Miles Glor. 1244) : Nam tu te 'vilem feceris . . . Sine ultro -vetiiat, qu^sitet^ 
desiderety exspectet. 



1 54 Roister Doister [act. m 

R. Royster. Well, for thy sake, this once with his lyfe he shall 
passe, 145 

But I wyll hewe hym all to pieces by the Masse. 
M. Mery. Nay fayth ye shall promise that he shall no harme have. 

Else I will not set him. 
R. Royster. I shall so God me save. 

But I may chide him a good.i 
M. Mery. Yea that do hardely. 

R. Royster. Go then. 150 

M. Mery. I returne, and bring him to you by and by. Ex. 



Actus iii. Scaena v. 
Roister Doister. Mathewe Merygreeke. Scrivener. 

R, Royster. What is a gentleman but his worde and his promise ? 
I must nowe save this vilaines lyfe in any wife. 
And yet at hym already my handes doe tickle, 
I shall uneth holde them, they wyll be so fickle. 
But lo and Merygreeke have not brought him sens ? 5 

M. Mery [entering with the Scriv.']. Nay I woulde I had of my 
purse payde fortie pens. 

Scrivener. So woulde I too : but it needed not that stounde, 

M, Mery. But the jentman ^ had rather spent five thousande pounde. 
For it disgraced him at least five tymes so muche. 

Scrivener. He disgraced hym selfe, his loutishnesse is suche. lO 

R. Royster. Howe long they stande prating ? Why comst thou 
not away ? 

M. Mery. Come nowe to hymselfe, and hearke what he will say. 

Scrivener. I am not afrayde in his presence to appeere. 

R. Royster. Arte thou come felow ? 

Scrivener. How thinke you ? am I not here ? 14 

R. Royster. What hindrance hast thou done me, and what villanie ? 

Scrivener. It hath come of thy selfe, if thou hast had any. 

1 Cf. Tindale, 1462 \_Prol. Jonas]: "the heathen Ninivites though they were blinded 
with lusts a good" } Two G. of V.^ IV. iv, 170 : ** weep agood." 2 cf, m. ii, 52. 



sc. v] Roister Doister 155 

R, Royster. All the stocke thou comest of later or rather,^ 
From thy fyrst fathers grandfathers fathers father, 
Nor all that shall come of thee to the worldes ende, F i 

Though to three score generations they descende, 20 

Can be able to make me a just recompense, 
For this trespasse of thine and this one offense. 

Scrivener, Wherin ? 

R, Royster, Did not you make me a letter brother ? 2 

Scrivener, Pay the like hire, I will make you suche an other. 

R. Royster. Nay see and these whooreson Phariseys and Scribes 25 
Doe not get their livyng by polling ^ and bribes.^ 
If it were not for shame [^advances towards the Scr. to strike him,'] 

Scrivener,^ Nay holde thy hands still. 

M. Mery. Why[,] did ye not promise that ye would not him 
spill ? 

Scrivener \prepares to fight]. Let him not spare me. [^Strikes R.] 

R, Royster, Why wilt thou strike me again ? 

Scrivener, Ye shall have as good as ye bring of me that is plaine. 30 

M, Mery, I can not blame him sir, though your blowes wold him 
greve. 
For he knoweth present death to ensue of all ye geve. 

R. Royster. Well, this man for once hath purchased thy pardon. 

Scrivener, And what say ye to me ? or else I will be gon. 

R, Royster, I say the letter thou madest me was not good. 35 

Scrivener, Then did ye wrong copy it of likelyhood. 

R, Royster, Yes, out of thy copy worde for worde I wrote. 

Scrivener, Then was it as ye prayed to have it I wote. 

But in reading and pointyng there was made some faulte. 

R, Royster. I wote not, but it made all my matter to haulte. 40 

Scrivener, How say you, is this mine originall or no ? 

R, Royster. The selfe same that I wrote out of, so mote I go. 

Scrivener, Loke you on your owne fist,^ and I will looke on this. 
And let this man be judge whether I reade amisse. 

1 sooner, 2 cf. < cousin,' III. i, 4. ^ swindling. 

* robbing ; Palsgr. 465 : I bribe, I pull, I pyll ! te bribe [Romant), je derobbe. . . He 
bribeth and he polleth. 

6 So in E. ; A., C, and H. give the words '< Nay . . . still " to Mery unnecessarily. 
6 R. had received his copy back from Custance ! 



156 Roister Doister [act. m 

To myne owne dere coney birde, sweete heart, and pigsny,^ 45 
Good mistresse Custance, present these by and by. 
How now ? doth not this superscription agree ? 

R. Royster. Reade that is within, and there ye shall the fault see. 

Scrivener. Sweete mistresse, where as I love you, nothing at all 

Regarding your richesse and substance : chiefe of all 50 

For your personage, beautie, demeanour and witte 
I commende me unto you : Never a whitte 
Sory to heare reporte of your good welfare. F i b 

For (as I heare say) suche your conditions are, 
That ye be worthie favour : of no living man 55 

To be abhorred : of every honest man 
To be taken for a woman encHned to vice 
Nothing at all : to vertue giving hir due price. 
Wherefore concerning mariage, ye are thought 
Suche a fine Paragon, as nere honest man bought. 60 

And nowe by these presents I doe you advertise, 
That I am minded to marrie you : In no wyse 
For your goodes and substance : I can be content 
To take you as you are : yf ye will be my wife. 
Ye shall be assured for the time of my life, 65 

I wyll keepe you right well : from good raiment and fare. 
Ye shall not be kept : but in sorowe and care 
Ye shall in no wyse ly ve : at your owne libertie. 
Doe and say what ye lust : ye shall never please me 
But when ye are merrie : I will bee all sadde yo 

When ye are sorie : I wyll be very gladde 
When ye seeke your heartes ease : I will be unkinde 
At no time : in me shall ye muche gentlenesse finde. 
But all things contrary to' your will and minde 
Shall be done otherwise: I wyll not be behynde 75 

To speake : And as for all they that woulde do you wrong, 
(I wyll so helpe and maintayne ye) shall not lyve long. 
Nor any foolishe dolte shall cumber you, but I, 
I, who ere say nay, wyll sticke by you tyll I die. 
Thus good mistresse Custance, the lorde you save and kepe. 80 
1 Omitted in A. 



sc. v] Roister Doister 



^57 



I 



From me Roister Doister, whether I wake or slepe, 
Who favoureth you no lesse, (ye may be bolde) 
Than this letter purporteth, which ye have unfolde. 
Now sir, what default can ye finde in this letter ? 

R. Royster. Of truth in my mynde there can not be a better. 85 

Scrivener. Then was the fault in readyng, and not in writyng, 

No nor I dare say in the fourme of endityng, F ii 

But who read this letter, that it sounded so nought ? 

M. Mery. I redde it in deede. 

Scrivener. Ye red it not as ye ought. 

R. Royster. Why thou wretched villaine was all this same fault in 
thee? [Advances angrily against M."] 90 

M. Mery [strikes ^.]. I knocke your costarde ^ if ye offer to strike 
me. 

R. Royster. Strikest thou in deede? and I offer but in jest? 

M. Mery. Yea and rappe you againe except ye can sit in rest. 
And I will no longer tarie here me beleve. 

R. Royster. What wilt thou be angry, and I do thee forgeve ? 95 
Fare thou well scribler, I crie thee mercie in deede. 

Scrivener. Fare ye well bibbler, and worthily may ye speede. 

R, Royster. If it were an other but thou, it were a knave. 

M. Mery. Ye are an other your selfe sir, the lorde us both save, 
Albeit in this matter I must your pardon crave, 100 

Alas woulde ye wyshe in me the witte that ye have ? 
But as for my fault I can quickely amende, 
I will shewe Custance it was I that did offende. 

R. Royster. By so doing hir anger may be reformed. 

M. Mery. But if by no entreatie she will be turned, 105 

Then sette lyght by hir and bee as testie as shee. 
And doe your force upon hir with extremitie. 

R. Roister. Come on therefore lette us go home in sadnesse. 

M. Mery. That if force shall neede all may be in a readinesse,^ 

And as for thys letter hardely^ let all go, no 

We wyll know where* she refuse you for that or no. 

Exeant am\bo.'\ 

1 head ; cf. G. G. N., p. 250 ; Hickscomer, p. i68, etc. 2 h. gives this line to R. 
* by all means; cf. I. ii, 175 ; IV, iii, 41, etc. 4 whether. 



158 



Roister Doister 



[act. nil. 



Actus iiii. Scaena i. 



Sym Suresby. 

Sim Sure. Is there any man but I Sym Suresby alone, 

That would have taken such an enterprise him upon, 

In suche an outragious tempest as this was. 

Suche a daungerous gulfe of the sea to passe. 

I thinke verily Neptunes mightie godshyp, 

Was angry with some that was in our shyp, 

And but for the honestie which in me he founde, 

I thinke for the others sake we had bene drownde. 

But iyc on that servant which for his maisters wealth^ 

Will sticke for to hazarde both his lyfe and his health. 

My maister Gawyn Goodlucke after me a day 

Bicause of the weather, thought best hys shyppe to stay, 

And now that I have the rough sourges so well past, 

God graunt I may finde all things safe here at last. 

Then will I thinke all my travaile well spent. 

Nowe the first poynt wherfore my maister hath me sent 

Is to salute dame Christian Custance his wife^ 

Espoused : whome he tendreth no lesse than his life, 

I must see how it is with hir well or wrong, 

And whether for him she doth not now thinke long : 

Then to other friendes I have a message or tway. 

And then so to returne and mete him on the way. 

Now wyll I goe knocke that I may dispatche with speede. 

But loe forth commeth hir selfe happily in deede. 



F ii ^ 
5 



10 



15 



20 



Actus iiii. Scaena ii. 

Christian Custance. Sim. Suresby. 

C. Custance. I come to see if any more stirryng be here. 
But what straunger is this, which doth to me appere ? 



1 welfare ; cf. Prol. lo. 

2 Cf. * spouse,' etc., I. v, 9 ; IV. iii, 41, 



E. has comma between ' wife ' and ' Espoused.' 



I 



I 



sc. Ill] Roister Doister 159 

Sym Surs. I will speake to hir: Dame the lorde you save and 

see. 
C. Custance. What friende Sym Suresby ? Forsoth right welcome 
ye be, 
Howe doth mine owne Gawyn Goodlucke, I pray the tell ? 5 
S. Suresby. When he knoweth of your health he will be perfect 

well. 
C. Custance. If he have perfect helth, I am as I would be. F iii 

Sim. Sure. Suche newes will please him well, this is as it should be. 
C. Custance. I thinke now long for him. 

Sym Sure. And he as long for you. lO 

C. Custance. When wil he be at home ? ^ 

Sym Sure. His heart is here een now 

His body commeth after. 
C. Custance. I woulde see that faine. 

Sim Sure. As fast as wynde and sayle can cary it a maine. 
But what two men are yonde comming hitherwarde ? 
C. Custance. Now I shrew their best Christmasse chekes ^ both 
togetherward. 14 

Actus, iiii. Scaena. iii. 

Christian Custance. Sym Suresby. Ralph Roister. Mathew 
Merygreke. Trupeny. 

C. Custance. What meane these lewde felowes thus to trouble me 
stil ? 

Sym Suresby here perchance shal therof deme som yll. 

And shall su[s]pect2 in me some point of naughtinesse, 

And they come hitherward. 
Sim Sure. What is their businesse ? 

C. Custance. I have nought to them, nor they to me in sadnesse. 5 
Sim Sure. Let us hearken them, somewhat there is I feare it. 
R. Royster. I will speake out aloude best, that she may heare it. 
M. Mery. Nay alas, ye may so feare hir out of hir wit. 
R. Royster. By the crosse of my sworde, I will hurt hir no whit. 

1 Cf. V. iv, 28 j < cheek' here like 'eyes/ 'teeth.' 2 e.^ <supect.' 



i6o Roister Doister [act. mi 

M. Mery. Will ye doe no harme in deede, shall I trust your worde? i o 

R. Royster. By Roister Doisters fayth I will speake but in 
borde. 

Sim Sure. Let us hearken them, somwhat there is I feare it. 

R. Royster. I will speake out aloude, I care not who heare it : 
Sirs, see that my harnesse, my tergat, and my shield. 
Be made as bright now, as when I was last in fielde, 15 

As white as I shoulde to warre againe to morrowe : 
For sicke shall I be, but I worke some folke sorow. 
Therfore see that all shine as bright as sainct George, 
Or as doth a key newly come from the Smiths forge. 
I woulde have my sworde and harnesse to shine so 
bright,! F iii b 20 

That I might therwith dimme mine enimies sight, 
I would have it cast beames as fast I tell you playne. 
As doth the glittryng grasse after a showre of raine. 
And see that in case I shoulde neede to come to arming, 
All things may be ready at a minutes warning, 25 

For such chaunce may chaunce in an houre, do ye heare ? 

M. Mery. As perchance shall not chaunce againe in seven yeare. 

R. Royster. Now draw we neare to hir, and here what shall be sayde. 

^Advances towards Cust.l^ 

M. Mery. But I woulde not have you make hir too muche afrayde. 

R. Royster. Well founde sweete wife^ (I trust) for al this your soure 
looke. 30 

C. Custance. Wife, why cal ye me wife ? 

Sim Sure, \_enters while the last words are spoken^ . Wife ? this gear 
goth acrook. 

M. Mery. Nay mistresse Custance, I warrant you, our letter 
Is not as we redde een nowe, but much better. 
And where ye halfe stomaked this gentleman afore. 
For this same letter, ye wyll love hym now therefore, 35 

Nor it is not this letter, though ye were a queene. 
That shoulde breake marriage betweene you twaine I weene. 

C. Custance. I did not refuse hym for the letters sake. 

R. Royster. Then ye are content me for your husbande to take. 

1 Taken from Plautus, Mil. Glor. I. i. 2 cf. IV. i, 17. 



sc. Ill] Roister Doister 1 6 1 

C. Custance, You for my husbande to take ? nothing lesse truely. 40 
R. Royster. Yea say so, sweete spouse, afore straungers hardly. 
M. Mery, And though I have here his letter of love v^^ith me, 

Yet his ryng and tokens he sent, keepe safe v^^ith ye. 
C, Custance. A mischiefe take his tokens, and him and thee too. 

But what prate I v^^ith fooles ? have I nought else to doo ? 45 

Come in with me Sym Suresby to take some repast. 
Sim Sure. I must ere I drinke by your leave, goe in all hast, 

To a place or two, with earnest letters of his. 
C. Custance. Then come drink here with me. 
Sim Sure. I thank you. 
C. Custance. . Do not misse. 

You shall have a token to your maister with you. 50 

Sym Sure. No tokens this time gramercies, God be with you. 

Exeat, 
■ C. Custance. Surely this fellowe misdeemeth some yll in me. 

Which thing but God helpe, will go neere to spill me. 
R. Royster. Yea farewell fellow, and tell thy maister Goodlucke 

That he cometh to late of thys blossome to plucke. F iv 55 

Let him keepe him there still, or at least wise make no hast. 

As for his labour hither he shall spende in wast. 

His betters be in place nowe. 
M. Mery [aside] . As long as it will hold. 
C. Custance. I will be even with thee thou beast, thou mayst be 

bolde. 
R. Royster. Will ye have us then ? 60 

C. Custance. I will never have thee.^ 
R. Royster. Then will I have you ! 
C. Custance. No, the devill shall have thee. 

I have gotten this houre more shame and harme by thee, 

Then all thy life days thou canst do me honestie. 
M. Mery \to Roister'] . Why nowe may ye see what it comth too 
in the ende. 

To make a deadly foe of your most loving frende : 65 

[ To Custance] . And ywis this letter if ye woulde heare it now — 
C. Custance. I will heare none of it. 

1 Note the ' thee ' and ' you.' 



1 62 Roister Doister [act. im 

M. Mery [to CustJ]. In faith would ravishe you. 

C. Custance. He hath stained my name for ever this is cleare. 

R. Royster. I can make all as well in an houre — 

M. Mery [aside^ . As ten yea re — 

[ To Cust.'\ . How say ye, will ye have him ? 70 

C. Custance. No. 
M. Mery. Will ye take him ? 
C. Custance. I defie him. 
M. Mery. At my word ? 
C. Custance. A shame take him. 

Waste no more wynde, for it will never bee. 
M. Mery. This one faulte with twaine shall be mended, ye shall see. 

Gentle mistresse Custance now, good mistresse Custance, 

Honey mistresse Custance now, sweete mistresse Custance, 75 

Golden mistresse Custance now, white ^ mistresse Custance, 

Silken mistresse Custance now, faire mistresse Custance. 
C. Custance. Faith rather than to mary with suche a doltishe loute, 

I woulde matche my selfe with a beggar out of doute. 
M. Mery. Then I can say no more, to speede we are not like, 80 

Except ye rappe out a ragge of your Rhetorike. 
C. Custance. Speake not of winnyng me : for it shall never be so, 
R. Royster. Yes dame, I will have you whether ye will or no, 

I commaunde you to love me, wherfore shoulde ye not ? 

Is not my love to you chafing and burning hot ? 85 

M. Mery. Too hir, that is well sayd. 
R. Royster. Shall I so breake my braine 

To dote upon you, and ye not love us againe ? 
M. Mery. Wei sayd yet. 
C. Custance. Go to [,] you goose. 
R. Royster. I say Kit Custance, 

In case ye will not haze,^ well, better yes perchaunce. T'w b 
C. Custance. Avaunt lozell,^ picke thee hence. 90 

M. Mery. Well sir, ye perceive. 

For all your kinde offer, she will not you receive. 
R. Royster. Then a strawe for hir, and a strawe for hir againe. 

She shall not be my wife, woulde she never so faine, 

1 Cf. I. i, 49. 2 cf. III. iv, 7, 8. 3 lubber or lout. 



sc. 



in] Roister Doister 163 



\ 



No and though she would be at ten thousand pounde cost. 
M. Mery. Lo dame, ye may see what an husbande ye have lost. 95 
C. Custance. Yea, no force, a Jewell muche better lost than 

founde. 
M. Mery. Ah, ye will not beleve how this doth my heart wounde. 

How shoulde a manage betwene you be towarde. 

If both parties drawe backe, and become so frowarde. 
R. Royster [threatening^ advancing upon Cust.^. Nay dame, I will 
fire thee out of thy house,^ 100 

And destroy thee and all thine, and that by and by. 
M. Mery. Nay for the passion of God sir, do not so. 
R. Royster. Yes, except she will say yea to that she sayd no. 
C. Custance. And what, be there no officers trow we, in towne 

To checke idle loytrers,^ braggyng up and downe ? 105 

Where be they, by whome vacabunds shoulde be represt ? 

That poore sillie^ Widowes might live in peace and rest. 

Shall I never ridde thee out of my companie ? 

I will call for helpe, what hough, come forth Trupenie. 
Trupenie [enter ing~\ . Anon. What is your will mistresse ? dyd ye 
call me ? 1 10 

C. Custance. Yea, go runne apace, and as fast as may be, 

Pray Tristram Trusty, my moste assured frende. 

To be here by and by, that he may me defende. 
Trupenie. That message so quickly shall be done by Gods grace, 

That at my returne ye shall say, I went apace. Exeat. 115 
C. Custance. Then shall we see I trowe, whether ye shall do me 

harme, 
R. Royster. Yes in faith Kitte, I shall thee* and thine so charme, 

That all women incarnate by thee may beware. 
C. Custance. Nay, as for charming me, come hither if thou dare, 

I shall cloute thee tyll thou stinke, both thee and thy traine, 120 

And coyle thee mine owne handes, and sende thee home 
againe. 
R. Royster. Yea sayst thou me that dame ? dost thou me threaten ? 

Goe we, I still see whether I shall be beaten. G i 

1 C. adds the rhyme : * though I die.' ^ simple, timid. 

2 See Appendix F. * R. * thous ' Custance now ! 



1 64 Roister Doister [act. mi 

M. Mery. Nay for the paishe ^ of God, let me now treate peace, 
For bloudshed will there be in case this strife increace. 125 
Ah good dame Custance, take better way with you. 
C. Custance. Let him do his worst. 

M. Mery. \Roister advances upon Oust.., attempts to strike'] . Yeld in 

time. 1^0 Cust.] 

R, Royster \_is beaten back by Oust. ; retiring to Mery. ;] , Come hence 

thou. Ex e ant Roister et Mery. 

Actus, iiii. Scaena. iiii. 
Christian Custance. Anot Alyface. Tibet T. M. Mumblecrust. 

C. Custance. So sirra, if I should not with hym take this way, 
I should not be ridde of him I thinke till doomes day, 
I will call forth my folkes, that without any mockes 
If he come agayne we may give him rappes and knockes. 
Mage Mumblecrust, come forth, and Tibet Talke apace. 5 
Yea and come forth too, mistresse Annot Alyface. 

\Enter the maids."] 

Annot Aly. I come. 

Tibet. And I am here. 

M. Mumb. And I am here too at length. 

C. Custance. Like warriers if nede bee, ye must shew your strength 
The man that this day hath thus begiled you. 
Is Ralph Roister Doister, whome ye know well inowe,^ 10 
The moste loute and dastarde that ever on grounde trode. 

Tib. Talk. I see all folke mocke hym when he goth abrode. 

C. Custance. What pretie maide ? will ye talke when I speake ? 

Tib. Talk. No forsooth good mistresse. 

C. Custance. Will ye my tale breake ? 

He threatneth to come hither with all his force to fight, 15 
I charge you if he come[:]on him with all your might [!] 

M. Mumbl. I with my distafFe will reache hym one rappe, 

Tib. Talk. And I with my newe broome will sweepe hym one 
swappe, 

1 Cf. V. 102 'passion' j <pashc,' IV. vii, 51 ; IV. viii, 52. 2 a. reads *mowe,' C. <inowe.' 



sc. 



v] Roister Doister 165 



And then with our greate clubbe I will reache hym one 
rappe [ — ] 
An, Allface. And I with our skimmer will fling him one flappe. 20 
Tih. Talk. Then Trupenies fireforke will him shrewdly fray, 

And you with the spitte may drive him quite away. 
C. Custance. Go make all ready, that it may be een so. G i ^ 

Tib. Talk. For my parte I shrewe them that last about it go. 

Exeant, 

Actus, iiii. Scaena. v. 
Christian Custance. Trupenie. Tristram Trusty. C. Custance. 

a Custance. Trupenie dyd promise me to runne a great pace, 

My friend Tristram Trusty to set into this place. 

Indeede he dwelleth hence a good stert ^ I confesse: 

But yet a quicke messanger might twice since[,] as I gesse. 

Have gone and come againe. Ah yond I spie him now. 5 
Trupeny [enters with Trusty, whom he leaves behind^ . Ye are a slow 
goer sir, I make God avow. 

My mistresse Custance will in me put all the blame. 

Your leggs be longer than myne : come apace for shame. 
C. Custance. I can 2 thee thanke Trupenie, thou hast done right wele. 
Trupeny. Maistresse since I went no grasse hath growne on my hele, 10 

But maister Tristram Trustie here maketh no speede. 
C. Custance. That he came at all I thanke him in very deede. 

For now have I neede of the helpe of some wise man. 
T. Trusty. Then may I be gone againe, for none such I [a]m. 
Trupenie. Ye may bee by your going : for no Alderman 15 

Can goe I dare say, a sadder pace than ye can. 
C. Custance. Trupenie get thee in, thou shalt among them knowe, 

How to use thy selfe, like a propre man I trowe. 

Trupeny. I go. • 1 i, 

C. Custance. Now Tristram Trusty I thank you right much. 

For at my first sending to come ye never grutch. 20 

T. Trusty. Dame Custance God ye saue, and while my life shall last, 

For my friende Goodlucks sake ye shall not sende in wast. 

1 Cf. Cotgr., Tressault: A start . . . also, a leap. ^ Cf. I. 11, 140. 



i66 



Roister Doister 



[act. nil 



C. 
T. 
C. 
T. 
C. 
T. 

a 

T, 

c. 

T. 

a 



T. 

a 



T. 



25 



Gii 



Custance. He shal give you thanks. 

Trusty. 1 will do much for his sake [!] 

Custance. But alack, I feare, great displeasure shall be take 

Trusty. Wherfore ? 

Custance. For a foolish matter. 

Trusty. What is your cause [.^] 

Custance. I am yll accombred with a couple of dawes. 

Trusty. Nay weepe not woman : but tell me what your cause is 
As concerning my friende is any thing amisse ? 

Custance. No not on my part : but here was Sym Suresby [ — ] 

Trustie. He was with me and told me so. 30 

Custance. And he stoode by 
While Ralph Roister Doister with helpe of Merygreeke, 
For promise of mariage dyd unto me seeke.^ 

Trusty. And had ye made any promise before them twaine[?] 

Custance. No I had rather be torne in pieces and flaine, 
No man hath my faith and trouth, but Gawyn Goodlucke, 35 
And that before Suresby dyd I say, and there stucke, 
But of certaine letters there were suche words spoken. 

Trustie. He tolde me that too. 

Custance. And of a ring and token. 
That Suresby I spied, dyd more than halfe suspect, 
That I my faith to Gawyn Goodlucke dyd reiect. 

Trusty. But there was no such matter dame Custance 
deede ? 

Custance. If ever my head thought it, God sende me yll speede 
Wherfore I beseech you, with me to be a witnesse, 
That in all my lyfe I never intended thing lesse, 
And what a brainsicke foole Ralph Roister Doister is, 
Your selfe know well enough. 

Trusty. Ye say full true ywis. 

Custance. Bicause to bee his wife I ne graunt nor apply,^ 
Hither will he com he sweareth by and by. 
To kill both me and myne, and beate downe my house flat. 
Therfore I pray your aide. 50 

Trustie. I warrant you that. 

1 Cf. II, iii. 17 ; III. iv, 85. 2 Think of it. 



40 

in 



45 



SC. Vl] 



Roister Doister 



167 



C Custance. Have I so many yeres lived a sobre life, 

And shewed my selfe honest, mayde, widowe, and wyfe 

And nowe to be abused in such a vile sorte. 

Ye see howe poore Widowes lyve all voyde of comfort. 

T. Trusty. I warrant hym do you no harme nor wrong at all. 55 

C. Custance. No, but Mathew Merygreeke doth me most appall,^ 
That he woulde joyne hym selfe with suche a wretched loute. 

T. Trusty. He doth it for a jest I knowe hym out of doubte. 
And here cometh Merygreke. 

C. Custance. Then shal we here his mind. 



Actus, iiii. Scaena. vi. 
Merygreke. Christian Custance. Trist. Trusty. 



Gil i 



M. Mery. Custance and Trustie both, I doe you here well finde. 
C. Custance. Ah Mathew Merygreeke, ye have used me well. 
M. Mery. Nowe for altogether^ ye must your answere tell. 

Will ye have this man, woman ? or else will ye not ? 

Else will he come never bore so brymme ^ nor tost so hot. 5 
Tris. and Cu. But why joyn ye with him. 
T. Trusty. For mirth ? 
C. Custance. Or else in sadnesse [?] 

M. Mery. The more fond of you both ! hardly y®* mater gesse [ ! ] 
Tristram. Lo how say ye dame ? 
M. Mery. Why do ye thinke dame Custance 

That in this wowyng I have ment ought but pastance ? 
C. Custance.^ Much things ye spake, I wote, to maintaine his do- 
tage. I o 
M. Mery. But well might ye judge I spake it all in mockage ?^ 

For why ? Is Roister Doister a fitte husband for you ? 

1 Sherwood, To appall : Esmayer, descourager. 

2 once for all. 

3 breme, brim, furious j cf V, 34. 

* So in E. C. reads correctly ' the ' 5 but A. has * yat,' and M. * that.' 
^ The names of the speakers in vv. 10 and 11 are by mistake in inverse order in E. 
^ * mockage ' is neither English nor French. Palsgr. , Cotgr. , etc. , do not have it j Halli- 
wrell quotes it from '* Collier's Old Ballads 48 5 Harrison, 235." 



1 68 Roister Doister [act. im 

T. Trusty. I dare say ye never thought it. 
M. Mery. No to God I vow. 

And did not I knowe afore of the insurance i 

Betweene Gawyn Goodlucke, and Christian Custance ? 15 

And dyd not 1 for the nonce, by my conveyance, ^ 

Reade his letter in a wrong sense for daliance ? 

That if you coulde have take it up at the first bounde. 

We should therat such a sporte and pastime have founde. 

That all the whole towne should have ben the merier. 20 

C. Custance. Ill ake your heades both, I was never werier. 

Nor never more vexte since the first day I was borne. 
T. Trusty. But very well I wist he here did all in scorne. 
C. Custance. But I feared thereof to take dishonestie. 
M. Mery. This should both have made sport, and shewed your 
honestie 25 

And Goodlucke I dare sweare, your witte therin would low. 
T. Trusty. Yea, being no worse than we know it to be now. 
M. Mery. And nothing yet to late, for when I come to him. 

Hither will he repaire with a sheepes looke full grim. 

By plaine force and violence to drive you to yelde. G Hi 30 
C. Custance. If ye two bidde me, we will with him pitche a fielde, 

I and my maides together. 
M. Mery. Let us see, be bolde. 
C. Custance. Ye shall see womens warre. 
T. Trusty. That fight wil I behold. 
M. Mery. If occasion serve, takyng his parte full brim, 

I will strike at you, but the rappe shall light on him. 35 

When we first appeare. 
C. Custance. Then will I runne away 

As though I were afeard. 
T. Trusty. Do you that part wel play 

And I will sue for peace. 
M. Mery. And I wil set him on. 

Then will he looke as fierce as a Cotssold lyon.^ 

1 See II. iii, 32. 2 cf. the figure of Crafty Conueyaunce in Skelton's Magnyfycence. 

3 the * Cotswold lyon ' is the * sheepe ' of v. 29 ; cf. Heywood, ,Prov. I. ch. li (78 ); 
* as fierce as a Lion of Cotsolde ' ; Tber sites (Dodsley i, 403), etc. 



sc. vii] 'Roister Doister 169 

T. Trusty, But when gost thou for him ? 40 

M. Mery. That do I very novve. 
C. Custance. Ye shall find us here. 

M. Mery. Wei god have mercy on you. Ex, 

T. Trusty. There is no cause of feare, the least boy in the streete : 
C. Custance. Nay, the least girle I have, will make him take his 
feete. 

But hearke, me thinke they make preparation. 
T. Trusty. No force, it will be a good recreation. 45 

C. Custance. I will stand within, and steppe forth speedily. 

And so make as though I ranne away dreadfully. \_Exea?it.'\ 



Actus, iiii. Scaena. vii. 

R. RoYSTER. M. Merygreeke. C. Custance. D. Doughtie. Harpax. 

Tristram Trusty. 

R. Royster. Nowe sirs, keepe your ray,i and see your heartes be stoute, 
But where be these caitifes, me think they dare not route,^ 
How sayst thou Merygreeke ? What doth Kit Custance say ? 

M. Mery. I am loth to tell you. 

R. Royster. Tushe speake man, yea or nay ? 

M. Mery. Forsooth sir, I have spoken for you all that I can. 5 
But if ye winne hir, ye must een play the man, 
Een to fight it out, ye must a mans heart take. 

R. Royster. Yes, they shall know, and^ thou knowest I have a 
stomacke. 

\_M. Mery.'] A stomacke (quod you) yea, as good as ere man 
had. Giii b 

R. Royster. I trowe they shall finde and feele that I am a lad. 10 

M. Mery. By this crosse I have scene you eate your meate as well, 
As any that ere I have scene of or heard tell, 
A stomacke quod you ? he that will that denie 
I know was never at dynner in your companie. 

1 line^ array. ^ H. changes * and ' into * as.' 

2 Cf. PalSg. 695 : aesemble in routes, styirc about. 



I JO Roister Doister [act. mi 

R. Royster. Nay, the stomacke of a man it is that I meane. 15 

M. Mery. Nay the stomacke of a horse or a dogge I weene. 

R. Royster. Nay a mans stomacke with a weapon meane I. 

M. Mery. Ten men can scarce match you with a spoone in 
a pie. 

R. Royster. Nay the stomake of a man to trie in strife. 

M. Mery. I never sawe your stomake cloyed yet in my lyfe. 20 

R. Royster. Tushe I meane in strife or fighting to trie. 

M. Mery. We shall see how ye will strike nowe being angry. 

R. Royster [^strikes M.'\ . Have at thy pate then, and save thy head 
if thou may. 

M. Mery. \_strikes R. again]. Nay then have at your pate agayne by 
this day, 

R. Royster. Nay thou mayst not strike at me againe in no wise. 25 

M. Mery. I can not in fight make to you suche warrantise : 
But as for your foes here let them the bargaine bie.^ 

R. Royster. Nay as for they, shall every mothers childe die. 
And in this mv fume a little thing might make me. 
To beate downe house and all, and else the devill take me. 30 

M. Mery. If I were as ye be, by gogs deare mother, 
I woulde not leave one stone upon an other. 
Though she woulde redeeme it with twentie thousand poundes. 

R. Royster. It shall be even so, by his lily woundes. 

M. Mery. Bee not at one with hir upon any amendes. 35 

R. Royster. No though she make to me never so many frendes. 
Nor if all the worlde for hir woulde undertake,^ 
No not God hymselfe neither, shal not hir peace make. 
On therfore, marche forwarde, — soft, stay a whyle yet. [ ! ] 

M. Mery. On. 40 

R. Royster. Tary. 

M. Mery. Forth. 

R. Royster. Back. 

M. Mery. On. 

R. Royster. Soft. Now forward set. ^march against the house,] ^ 

C. Custance [entering ;] . What businesse have we here ? out [ ! ] 
alas, alas ! [retires for fun. ~\ 

1 Cf. 'chieve, 'low. ^ intercede. 



sc. vii] Roister Doister 171 

R. Royster. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. 

Dydst thou see that Merygreeke ? how afrayde she was ? 

Dydst thou see how she fledde apace out of my sight ? [G iv] 

Ah good sweete Custance I pitie hir by this light. 45 

M. Mery. That tender heart of yours wyll marre altogether. 

Thus will ye be turned with waggyng of a fether. 
R. Royster. On sirs, keepe your ray. 
M. Mery. On forth, while this geare is hot 
R. Royster. Soft, the Armes of Caleys, I have one thing forgot. 
M. Mery. What lacke we now ? 50 

R. Royster. Retire, or else we be all slain. 

M. Mery. Backe for the pashe of God, backe sirs, backe 
againe. 

What is the great mater ? 
R. Royster. This hastie forth goyng 

Had almost brought us all to utter undoing. 

It made me forget a thing most necessarie. 
M. Mery. Well remembered of a captaine by sainct Marie. 55 

R. Royster. It is a thing must be had. 
M. Mery. Let us have it then. 
R. Royster. But I wote not where nor how. 
M. Mery. Then wote not I when. 

But what is it ? 
R. Royster. Of a chiefe thing I am to seeke. 
M. Mery. Tut so will ye be, when ye have studied a wake. 

But tell me what it is .? 60 

R. Royster. I lacke yet an hedpiece. 
M. Mery. The kitchen collocauit,^ the best hennes to grece, 

Runne, fet it Dobinet, and come at once withall. 

And bryng with thee my potgunne, hangyng by the wall, 

\_Dobinet goes'] 

I have seene your head with it full many a tyme. 

Covered as safe as it had bene with a skrine : 65 

1 Jocosj formation ; probably a "collock," a (kitchen) pail {North-Engl. zee. to Halliwell). 
A large pail generally with an erect handle in Yorks, Lancash., etc. (Wright, Dial. Diet.). 
Cf. Heywood, Pro-v. 2, ch. 7, "give you a recumbentibus.'" If this fine' Latin ending was a 
school-joke it would be of chronological importance. 



1/2 Roister Doisier [act. im 

And I warrant it save your head from any stroke, 

Except perchaunce to be amased ^ with the smoke : 

I warrant your head therwith, except for the mist, 

As safe as if it were fast locked up in a chist : [Dob. enters'] 

And loe here our Dobinet commeth with it nowe. 70 

D. Dough, I will cover me to the shoulders well inow. 

M. Mery. Let me see it on. 

R. Royster. In fayth it doth metely well. 

M. Mery. There can be no fitter thing. Now ye must us tell 
What to do. 

R, Royster. Now forth in ray sirs, and stoppe no more. 73 

M. Mery. Now sainct George to borow,^ Drum dubbe a dubbe afore. 

T. Trusty, [entering] . What meane you to do sir, committe man- 
slaughter. 

R. Royster. To kyll fortie such, is a matter of laughter. 

T. Trusty. And who is it sir, whome ye intende thus to spill ? G'w b 

R. Royster. Foolishe Custance here forceth me against my will. 

T. Trusty. And is there no meane your extreme wrath to slake. 80 
She shall some amendes unto your good mashyp make. 

R. Royster. I will none amendes. 

T. Trusty. Is hir offence so sore ? 

M. Mery. And he were a loute she coulde have done no more. 
She hath calde him foole, and dressed him like a foole. 
Mocked him lyke 2 foole, used him like a foole. 85 

T. Trusty. Well yet the SherifFe, the Justice, or Constable, 
Hir misdemeanour to punishe might be able. 

R. Royster. No sir, I mine owne selfe will in this present cause, 
Be Sheriffe, and Justice, and whole Judge of the lawes, 
This matter to amende, all officers be I shall, 90 

Constable, BailifFe, Sergeant. 

M. Mery. And hangman and all. 

T. Trusty. Yet a noble courage, and the hearte of a man 
Should more honour winne by bearyng with a woman. 
Therfore take the lawe, and lette hir aunswere thereto. 

R. Royster. Merygreeke, the best way were even so to do. 95 



1 Stupefied; cf. P:.lsgr. p. 421. 

2 for security j see Robyn Hode, st. 63 j 



Cock Loreh Bote, etc. 



sc. vii] Roister Doister 173 

What honour should it be with a woman to fight ? 
M. Mery. And what then, will ye thus forgo and lese your 

right ? 
R. Royster. Nay, I will take the lawe on hir withouten grace. 
T. Trusty. Or yf your mashyp coulde pardon this one trespace. 

I pray you forgive hir. 100 

R, Royster. Hoh ? 
M. Mery. Tushe tushe sir do not. 

Be good maister to hir. 
R. Royster. Hoh ? 
M. Mery. Tush I say do not. 

And what shall your people here returne streight home ? 
T. Trustie. Yea, levie the campe sirs, and hence againe eche one,i 
R. Royster. But be still in readinesse if I happe to call, 

I can not tell what sodaine chaunce may befall. 105 

M. Mery. Do not off your harnesse sirs I you advise, 

At the least for this fortnight in no maner wise, 

Perchaunce in an houre when all ye thinke least, 

Our maisters appetite to fight will be best. 

But soft, ere ye go, have once at Custance house. 1 10 

R. Royster. Soft, what wilt thou do ? 
M. Mery. Once discharge my harquebouse 

And for my heartes ease, have once more with my potgoon. H i 
R. Royster. Holde thy handes else is all our purpose cleane fordoone. 
M. Mery. And it cost me my life. 
R. Royster. I say thou shalt not. ' 

M. Mery [making a mock assault']. By the matte 2 but I will. Have 
once more with haile shot. 115 

I will have some penyworth, I will not leese all. 

1 T. in addressing the * Miles ' goes on with his military jargon. In E. this line is assigned 
to Royster, and the next two lines from < But ' to ' befall ' to T. Trustie. 

2 By the mass ! 



174 Roister Doister [act. 



iiii 



Actus, iiii. Scaena. viii.^ 
M. Merygreeke. C. Custance. R. Roister. Tib. T. An. Alyface. 

M. MUMBLECRUST. TrUPENIE. DoBINET DoUGHTIE. HaRPAX. Two 

drummes with their Ensigties, 

C. Custance. What caitifes are those that so shake my house wall ? 
M. Mery [with a sly wink~\ . Ah sirrha [!] now Custance if ye had 
so muche wit 

I woulde see you aske pardon, and your selves submit. 
C. Custance. Have I still this adoe with a couple of fooles ? 
M. Mery. Here ye what she saith ? 5 

C. Custance. Maidens come iorth with your tooles. 
R. Royster. In a ray. 
M. Mery. Dubba dub sirrha. 
R. Royster. In a ray. 

They come sodainly on us. 
M. Mery. Dubbadub. 
R. Royster. In a ray. 

That ever I was borne, we are taken tardie. 
M. Mery. Now sirs, quite our selves like tall men and hardie. 
C. Custance. On afore Trupenie, holde thyne owne Annot, lO 

On towarde them Tibet, for scape us they can not. 

Come forth Madge Mumblecrust, so stande fast togither. 
M. Mery. God sende us a faire day. 
R. Royster. See they marche on hither. 
Tib. Talk. But mistresse. 
C. Custance. What sayst [th]ou ? ^ 
Tib. Shall I go fet our goose ? ^ 

C. Custance. What to do? 15 

Tib. To yonder Captain I will turne hir loose 

And she gape and hisse at him, as she doth at me, 

I durst jeoparde my hande she wyll make him flee. 

1 IV. viii, Cf. Plaut. Mile%^ v. 1394 seq. 2 £ has *you.' 

3 the * goose ' would produce the same effect as the * snail ' in Tber sites. 



sc. viii] Roister Doister 175 

C. Custance. On forward. 

R. Royster. They com. 

M, Mery. Stand. [They fight ; M, hitting R, 

R. Royster. Hold. 

M. Mery. Kepe. 

R. Royster. There. 

M. Mery. Strike. 

R. Royster. Take heede. 

C. Custance. Wei sayd Truepeny. 

Trupeny. Ah whooresons. 

C. Custance. Wei don in deede 

M. Mery. Hold thine owne Harpax., downe with them Dobinet. 20 

Hi b 

C. Custance. Now Madge, there Annot : now sticke them Tibet. 
Tib. Talk, [against Dob.'] . All my chiefe quarell is to this same little 

knave, 
That begyled me last day, nothyng shall him save. 

D. Dough. Downe with this litle queane, that hath at me such spite, 

Save you from hir maister, it is a very sprite. 25 

C. Custance. I my selfe will mounsire graunde^ captaine undertake, 

[advances against Roister. '\ 
R. Royster. They win grounde. 
M. Mery. Save your selfe sir, for gods sake. 
R. Royster [retiring.^ beaten] . Out, alas, I am slaine, helpe. 
M. Mery. Save your selfe. 
R. Royster. Alas. 
M. Mery. Nay then, have at you mistresse. 

[pretending to strike Gust., he hits Roist.~\ 
R. Royster. Thou hittest me, alas. 

M. Mery. I wil strike at Custance here. [again hitting R.] 30 

R. Royster. Thou hittest me. 
M. Mery. [aside] . So I wil. 

Nay mistresse Custance. 
R. Royster. Alas, thou hittest me still. 

Hold. 

1 Heywood, Prov. i, ch, 5 (21) : <*thus be I by this once le senior de graunde, | many 
that commaund me, I shall commaunde." 



1 76 Roister Troisier [act. im. scJ^) 

M. Mery, Save your self sir. 
R. Royster. Help,^ out alas I am slain 

M. Mery. Truce, hold your hands, truce for a pissing while or 
twaine : 

Nay how say you Custance, for saving of your life. 

Will ye yelde and graunt to be this gentmans wife ? 35 

C. Custance. Ye tolde me he loved me, call ye this love ? 
M. Mery. He loved a while even like a turtle dove. 
C, Custance. Gay love God save it, so soone hotte, so soone 

colde,2 
M. Mery. I am sory for you : he could love you yet so he coulde. 
R. Royster. Nay by cocks precious^ she shall be none of mine. 40 
M. Mery. Why so ? 
R. Royster. Come away, by the matte she is mankine.* 

I durst adventure the losse of my right hande. 

If shee dyd not slee hir other husbande : 

And see if she prepare not againe to fight. 
M. Mery. What then ? sainct George to borow, our Ladies 
knight.^ 45 

R. Royster. Slee else whom she will, by gog she shall not slee mee. 
M. Mery. How then ? 

R. Royster. Rather than to be slaine, I will flee. 
C. Custance. Too it againe, my knightesses, downe with them all. 
R. Royster. Away, away, away, she will else kyll us all. 
M. Mery. Nay sticke to it, like an bardie man and a tall. 50 

R. Royster. Oh bones,^ thou hittest me. Away, or else die we 

shall. 
M. Mery. Away for the pashe of our sweete Lord Jesus Christ. 
C. Custance. Away loute and lubber, or I shall be thy priest. 

Exeant ^Royster and his ^ army.^^ 

So this fielde is ours we have driven them all away. H ii 

Tih Talk. Thankes to God mistresse, ye have had a faire day. 55 

1 Cf. Mil. Glor. 1406. 

2 Heywood's Pro'v. 2, ch. 8 ; ib. i, ch. 2; Camden, Prov. 270; Ray, etc. 

* See the complete oath, III. iv, 127. 

* masculine, furious. 

^ See Child's Ballads^ Index '^ Fliigel's Lesebucb^ 440- 

^ Gog's bones, G. G. N. passim. 7 E. has the stage direction ; Exeant om. 



ACT. V. SC. I 



Roister Doister 



^77 



C. Custance. Well nowe goe ye in, and make your selfe some good 
cheere. 
Omnes pariter. We goe [! — Exeant Custajice* s maidens\. 
T. Trust. Ah sir, what a field we have had heere. 
C. Custance. Friend Tristram, I pray you be a witnesse with me. 
T. Trusty. Dame Custance, I shall depose for your honestie. 

And nowe fare ye well, except some thing else ye wolde. 6c 
C. Custance. Not now, but when I nede to sende I will be 
bolde. 
I thanke you for these paines. \_Exeat Trusty.^~^ And now I 

wyll get me in. 
Now Roister Doister will no more wowyng begin. Ex. 63 



Actus. V. Scaena. i. 

Gawyn Goodlucke. Sym Suresby. 

Sym Suresby my trustie man, nowe advise thee well. 
And see that no false surmises thou me tell. 
Was there such adoe about Custance of a truth ? 

Sim. Sure. To reporte that I hearde and sawe, to me is ruth, 

But both my duetie and name and propretie,^ 5 

Warneth me to you to shewe fidelitie. 

It may be well enough, and I wyshe it so to be. 

She may hir selfe discharge and trie ^ hir honestie. 

Yet their clayme to hir me thought was very large. 

For with letters rings* and tokens, they dyd hir charge. 10 

W^hich when I hearde and sawe I would none to you bring. 

G. Goodl. No, by sainct Marie, I allowe thee in that thing. 
Ah sirra, nowe I see truthe in the proverbe olde. 
All things that shineth is not by and by ^ pure golde, 
If any doe lyve a woman of honestie,^ 15 

I would have sworne Christian Custance had bene shee.^ 



1 The Exeat in E. stands at the end of 6] 

2 natural disposition. 

3 make proof of j cf. Palsgr. p. 762. 



4 Cf Plaut. Miles, v. 957 (IV. 1, I : 
^ straightway, therefore. 
* Note the rhyme. 



178 Roister Doister [act. v 

Sim Sure. Sir, though I to you be a servant true and just. 

Yet doe not ye therfore your faithful! spouse mystrust. 

But examine the matter, and if ye shall it finde, H ii ^ 

To be all well, be not ye for my wordes unkinde. 20 

G. Goodl. I shall do that is right, and as I see cause why. 

But here commeth Custance forth, we shal know by and by. 



Actus. V. Scaena. ii. 

C. Custance. Gawyn Goodlucke. Sym Suresby. 

C. Custance, I come forth to see and hearken for newes good, 

For about this houre is the tyme of likelyhood. 

That Gawyn Goodlucke by the sayings of Suresby, 

Would be at home, and lo yond I see hym I. 

What Gawyn Goodlucke, the onely hope of my life, 5 

Welcome home, and kysse me your true espoused wife. 
Ga. Good. Nay soft dame Custance, I must first by your licence, 

See whether all things be cleere in your conscience, 

I heare of your doings to me very straunge. 
C. Custance. What feare ye ? that my faith towardes you should 
chaunge ? 10 

Ga. Good. I must needes mistrust ye be elsewhere entangled. 

For I heare that certaine men with you have wrangled 

About the promise of mariage by you to them made. 
C. Custance. Coulde any mans reporte your minde therein persuade ? 
Ga. Good. Well, ye must therin declare your selfe to stande 
cleere, 15 

Else I and you dame Custance may not joyne this yere. 
C. Custance. Then woulde I were dead, and faire layd in my 
grave. 

Ah Suresby, is this the honestie that ye have ? 

To hurt me with your report, not knowyng the thing. 
Sim Sure. If ye be honest my wordes can hurte you nothing. 20 

But what T hearde and sawe, I might not but report. 
C. Custance. Ah Lorde, helpe poore widowes, destitute of comfort. 



^^•"0 Roister Doister 170 

Truly most deare spouse, nought was done but for pastance. 
G. Good. But such kynde of sporting is homely i daliance. 
C, Custance. If ye knewe the truthe, ye would take all in good 



parte 



Hiii 



25 



yO >o n 111 

Ga. Good. By your leave I am not halfe well skilled in that arte. 
C. Custance. It was none but Roister Doister that foolishe mome 2 
Ga. Good. Yea Custance, better (they say) a badde scuse3 than 
none.2 

C. Custance. Why Tristram Trustie sir, your true and faithfull 
frende. 
Was privie bothe to the beginning and the ende. 30 

Let him be the Judge, and for me testifie. 

Ga. Good. I will the more credite that he shall verifie, 
And bicause I will the truthe know een as it is, 
I will to him my selfe, and know all without misse. 
Come on Sym Suresby, that before my friend thou may 35 
Avouch the same wordes, which thou dydst to me say. Exeant. 

Actus. V. Scaena. iii. 

Christian Custance. 

C. Custance. O Lorde, howe necessarie it is nowe of dayes, 
That eche bodie live uprightly all maner wayes, 
For lette never so little a gappe be open. 
And be sure of this, the worst shall be spoken [.] 
Howe innocent stande I in this for deede or thought,* 5 

And yet see what mistrust towardes me it hath wrought [.] 
But thou Lorde knowest all folkes thoughts and eke intents 
And thou arte the deliverer of all innocentes. 

iThou didst helpe the advoutresse ^ that she might be amended, 
Much more then helpe Lorde, that never yll intended. 10 

Thou didst helpe Susanna, wrongfully accused. 
And no lesse dost thou see Lorde, how I am now abused, 

1 Cf. Sherwood, s. v. : . . <rude,' 'simple,' *vil,' etc. 

8 Cf t^Kr ^^"'T ' ^' ^"^ ^- ^^^^^ ^" interrogation mark. 

Cf. stabhshe, etc. 5 Adulteress. 



i8o Roister Doister [act. v 

Thou didst helpe Hester^ when she should have died, 

Helpe also good Lorde, that my truth may be tried. 

Yet if Gawin Goodlucke with Tristram Trusty speake. 15 

I trust of yll report the force shall be but weake, 

And loe yond they come sadly talking togither, H iii b 

I wyll abyde, and not shrinke for their comming hither. 



Actus. V. Scaena. iiii. 
Gawyn Goodlucke. Tristram Trustie. C. Custance. Sym Suresby. 

Ga. Good. And was it none other than ye to me reporte? 

Tristram. No, and here were [y^t] wished [ye] to have scene the 
sporte.i 

Ga. Good. Woulde I had, rather than halfe of that in my purse. 

Sim Sure. And I doe muche rejoyce the matter was no wurse, 

And like as to open it, I was to you faithfull, 5 

So of dame Custance honest truth I am joyfuU. 

For God forfende that I shoulde hurt hir by false reporte. 

Ga. Good. Well, I will no longer holde hir in discomforte. 

C. Custance. Nowe come they hitherwarde, I trust all shall be well. 

Ga. Good. Sweete Custance neither heart can thinke nor tongue 
tell, 10 

Howe much I joy in your constant fidelitie, 
Come nowe kisse me the ^ pearle of perfect honestie. 

C. Custance. God lette me no longer to continue in lyfe, 
Than I shall towardes you continue a true wyfe. 

Ga. Goodl. Well now to make you for this some parte of amendes, 15 
I shall desire first you, and then suche of our frendes. 
As shall to you seeme best, to suppe at home with me, 
Where at your fought fielde we shall laugh and mery be. 

Sim Sure. And mistresse I beseech you, take with me no greefe, 

I did a true mans part, not wishyng you repreefe.^ 20 

C. Custance. Though hastie reportes through surmises growyng, 
May of poore innocentes be utter overthrowyng, 

1 E., * here were ye wished to haue.' 2 Nom. -vocative ; cf. V. vi, 37. ^ reproach. 



sc. v] Roister Doister 1 8 1 

Yet bicause to thy maister thou hast a true hart, 

And I know mine owne truth, I forgive thee for my part. 
Ga. Goodl. Go we all to my house, and of this geare no more. 25 

Goe prepare all things Sym Suresby, hence, runne afore. H iv 
Sim Sure. I goe. Ex, 

G. Good, But who commeth yond, M. Merygreeke ? 
C. Custance. Roister Doisters champion, I shrewe his best cheeke.i 
T. Trusty. Roister Doister selfe^ your wower is with hym too. 

Surely some thing there is with us they have to doe. 30 



Actus. V. Scaena. v.^ 

M. Merygreeke. Ralph Roister. Gawyn Goodlucke, 
Tristram Trustie. C. Custance. 

M. Mery. Yond I see Gawyn Goodlucke, to whome lyeth my 
message, 

I will first salute him after his long voyage. 

And then make all thing well concerning your behalfe. 
R. Royster. Yea for the pashe of God. 
M, Mery. Hence out of sight ye calfe. 

Till I have spoke with them, and then I will you fet[ — ] 5 
R. Royster. In Gods name. 
M. Mery. What Master Gawin Goodluck wel met 

And from your long voyage I bid you right welcome home. 
Ga. Good. I thanke you. 

M. Mery. I come to you from an honest mome. 
Ga. Good. Who is that ? 

M. Mery. Roister Doister that doughtie kite. 

C. Custance. Fye, I can scarce abide ye shoulde his name recite. 10 
M. Mery. Ye must take him to favour, and pardon all past. 

He heareth of your returne, and is full yll agast. 
Ga. Good. I am ryght well content he have with us some chere. 
C. Custance. Fye upon hym beast, then ^yyll not I be there. 

1 See IV. ii, 14. ^ Cf. last scene of Ter. Eunucbus. 

2 Cf. Koch's Wst. Gram. 2 : 324. 



1 8 2 Roister Doister [act. v 

Ga. Good. Why Custance do ye hate hym more than ye love me ? 15 
C. Custance. But for your mynde ^ sir, where he were would I not 

be[.]^ 
T. Trusty. He woulde make us al laugh. 
M. Mery. Ye nere had better sport. 

Ga. Good. I pray you sweete Custance, let him to us resort. 
C. Custance. To your will I assent. 
M. Mery. Why, suche a foole it is,^ 

As no man for good pastime would forgoe or misse. 20 

G. Goodl. Fet him to go wyth us. 

M. Mery. He will be a glad man. Ex. 

T. Trusty. We must to make us mirth,* maintained hym all 
we can. 

And loe yond he commeth and Merygreeke with him. H'w b 

C. Custance. At his first entrance ye shall see I wyll him trim. 

But first let us hearken the gentlemans wise talke. 25 

T, Trusty. I pray you marke if ever ye sawe crane so stalke. 



Actus. V. Scaena. vi. 

R. Roister. M. Merygreeke. C. Custance. G. Goodlucke. 
T. Trustie. D. Doughtie. Harpax. 

R. Royster. May I then be bolde ? 

M. Mery. I warrant you on my worde. 

They say they shall be sicke, but ye be at theyr borde. 

R. Royster. Thei wer not angry then [?] 

M. Mery. Yes at first, and made strange 

But when I sayd your anger to favour shoulde change, 
And therewith had commended you accordingly, 5 

They were all in love with your mashyp by and by. 
And cried you mercy that they had done you wrong. 

R. Royster. For why, no man, woman, nor childe can hate me long.* 

1 *' Unless you desire it." 2 £_ f^ag interrogation mark. 

3 Cf. Eunuch. V. viii, 49: Fatuus est, tnsulsus, bardus. 

* Cf. ib. V. viii, 575 Hunc comedendum et deridendum -vobis propino. 

^ E., ' maintaiue.' 

® Cf. Eunuch. V. viii, 62: Numquam etiam fui usquam, quin me omnes amarint plurimum 



sc. vi] Roister Doister 183 

M. Mery. We feare (quod they) he will be avenged one day, 

Then for a peny give all our lives we may. 10 

R. Royster. Sayd they so in deede[?] 
M. Mery. Did they ? yea, even with one voice 

He will forgive all (quod I) Oh how they did rejoyce. 
R. Royster. Ha, ha, ha. 13 

M. Mery. Goe fette hym (say they) while he is in good moode, 

For have his anger who lust, we will not by the Roode. 15 
R. Royster. I pray God that it be all true, that thou hast me tolde, 

And that she fight no more. 
M. Mery. I warrant you, be bolde 

Too them, and salute them. \advance towards Goodl., etc.'\ 

R. Royster. Sirs, I greete you all well. 
Omnes. Your maistership is welcom. 
C. Custance. Savyng my quarell. 

For sure I will put you up into the Eschequer.^ 20 

M. Mery. Why so ? better nay : Wherfore ? 
C. Custance. For an usurer.^ 

R. Royster. I am no usurer good mistresse by his armes. 
M. Mery. When tooke he gaine of money to any mans harmes ? 
C. Custance. Yes, a fowle usurer he is, ye shall see els [ — ] i i 

R. Royster [aside to M.~\ Didst not thou promise she would picke 
no mo quarels ? 25 

C. Custance. He will lende no blowes, but he have in recompence 

Fiftene for one,^ whiche is to muche of conscience. 
R. Royster. Ah dame, by the auncient lav/e of armes, a man 

Hath no honour to foile his handes on a woman. 
C. Custance. And where other usurers ^ take their gaines yerely, 30 

This man is angry but he have his by and by. 
Ga. Goodl. Sir, doe not for hir sake beare me your displeasure. 
M. Mery. Weil, he shall with you talke therof more at leasure. 

Upon your good usage, he will now shake your hande. 
R. Royster. And much heartily welcome from a straunge lande. 35 

1 Cf. PoUock-Maitland, Hist. Engl. Laiv, i^i'Ji : " The Exchequer is called a curia . . . 
it receives and audits the accounts of the sheriffs and other collectors j it calls the King's 
debtors before it," etc. 

2 Cf Wright's Songs, 76. 

3 See Introd., Date of the Play. 



184 Roister Doister [act. v. sc. vi] 

M. Mery. Be not afearde Gawyn to let him shake your fyst. 
Ga. Goodl. Oh the moste honeste gentleman that ere I wist. 

I beseeche your mashyp to take payne to suppe with us. 
M. Mery, He shall not say you nay and I too, by Jesus. 

Bicause ye shall be friends, and let all quarels passe. 40 

R. Royster. I wyll be as good friends with them as ere I was. 
M. Mery. Then let me fet your quier that we may have a song. 
R. Royster. Goe. 

G. Goodluck. I have hearde no melodie all this yeare long. 
M. Mery \to the musicians whom he has called in'] . Come on sirs quickly. 
R. Royster. Sing on sirs, for my frends sake. 

D. Dough. Cal ye these your frends ? 45 

R. Royster. Sing on, and no mo words make. 

Here they sing.^ 

Ga. Good. The Lord preserve our most noble Queene of renowne, 

And hir virtues rewarde with the heavenly crowne. 
C. Custance. The Lorde strengthen hir most excellent Majestic, 

Long to reigne over us in all prosperitie. 
T. Trusty. That hir godly proceedings the faith to defende,^ 50 

He may stablishe and maintaine through to the ende. 
M, Mery. God graunt hir as she doth, the Gospell to protect,^ 

Learning and vertue to advaunce, and vice to correct.* 
R. Royster. God graunt hir lovyng subjects both the minde and grace, 

Hir most godly procedyngs worthily to imbrace. I i ^ 55 

Harpax. Hir highnesse most worthy counsellers ^ God prosper, 

With honour and love of all men to minister. 
Omnes. God graunt the nobilitie ^ sir to serve and love, 

With all the whole commontie as doth them behove. 59 

AMEN. 

1 See Appendix G. 

2 The title, * Fidei Defensor,'* was given to Henry VIII, in 1521 ; the title, Defender of 
the Faith, is found in the statutes of Mary and Elizabeth ; Defenders of the Faith in those of 
Philip and Mary. 

3 Similarly in the Prayer at the end of Cambyses. 

* Similarly in the Prayer at the end of Like will to Like. 

^ Similarly in the plays of Jacob and Esau, Disob. Child, Neiv Custom, Cambyses, Like 
•will to Like. 

6 Similarly in the Prayers of Nice Wanton, Disob. Child, Appius, Like ivill to Like, Trial! 
of Treas. [all estates]. 



Roister Doister 185 

Certaine Songs to be song by 

those which shall use this Comedie or Enterlude 

THE SECONDE SONG ^ 

Who SO to marry a minion Wyfe, 
Hath hadde good chaunce and happe, 
Must love hir and cherishe hir all his life, 
And dandle hir in his lappe. 4 

If she will fare well, yf she wyll go gay, 
A good husbande ever styll, 
What ever she lust to doe, or to say, 
Must lette hir have hir owne will. 8 

About what affaires so ever he goe, 
He must shewe hir all his mynde. 
None of hys counsell she may be kept fr[o]e,2 
Else is he a man unkynde. 12 

THE FOURTH SONG. ^ 

I mun be maried a Sunday 
I mun be maried a Sunday, 

Who soever shall come that way, [I ii] 

I mun be maried a Sunday. 4 

Royster Doyster is my name, 
Royster Doyster is my name, 
A lustie brute* I am the same, 
I mun be maried a Sunday. 8 

Christian Custance have I founde. 
Christian Custance have I founde, 
A Wydowe worthe a thousande pounde, 
I mun be maried a Sunday. 12 

1 Seel, iv, 112. 2 a. (andE. ?): <free.' 3 To be inserted III. iii, 152. * Cf. III. iii, 120. 



1 86 Roister Doister 

Custance is as sweete as honey, 
Custance Is as sweete as honey, 
I hir lambe and she my coney, 
I mun be marled a Sunday. i6 

When we shall make our weddyng feast, 
When we shall make our weddyng feast, 
There shall bee cheere for man and beast, 
I mun be marled a Sunday. 20 

I mun be marled a Sunday, etc. 



The Psalmodie.' 

Placebo dilex'i^ 
Maister Roister Doister wil streight go home and die. 
Our Lorde Jesus Christ his soule have mercie upon. 
Thus you see to day a man, to morow^ John.^ 

Yet saving for a womans extreeme crueltie, 5 

He might have lyved yet a moneth or two or three. 
But in spite of Custance which hath him weried, I ii. b 

His mashyp shall be worshipfully buried. 
And while some piece of his soule is yet hym within, 
Some parte of his funeralls let us here beginne. lO 

Dirige. He will go darklyng to his grave. 
Neque lux^ neque crux^ nisi solum clinke,^ 
Never gentman so went toward heaven I thinke.^ 

Yet sirs as ye wyll the blisse of heaven win, 
When he commeth to the grave lay hym softly in, 15 

And all men take heede by this one Gentleman, 
How you sette your love upon an unkinde woman : 
For these women be all suche madde pievish elves. 
They wyll not be woonne except it please them selves. 
But in faith Custance if ever ye come in hell, 20 

Maister Roister Doister shall serve you as well. 

1 Cf. III. iii, 53. 3 H. changes to * none.' ^ Entirely new line. 

a $ic. E. * Cf. the slight differences III. iii, 59. 



Roister Doister 187 

Good night Roger old knave, Farewel Roger olde knave. 
Good night Roger olde knave, knave, knap. 
Nequando. Audiui vocem. Requiem aternam. 



The Peale' of belles rongby the parish Clerk, 

and Roister Doisters foure men 

THE FIRST BELL A TRIPLE.^ 

When dyed he ? When dyed he ? 

THE SECONDE 

We have hym, We have hym. 

THE THIRDE 

Royster Doyster, Royster Doyster. 

THE FOURTH BELL 

He commeth, He commeth. 

THE CREATE BELL 

Our owne, Our owne. 

1 Cf., on * Voices' of Bells, Brand, Fop. Ant. a : 214, 216. 
* Cotgr. : a Triple ; also Gaillard-time in Music. 



Finis. 



APPENDIX 

A. The Metre of Roister Doister. — Udall's verse is a long line of 
9, 10, II, 12 (and rarely more) syllables; a verse w^hich represents the 
Middle English Long Line (or the Middle English Septenarius, as it has 
been called for lack of a better name), as we find it, for instance, in Robert 
of Gloucester, some Legends, and Robert of Brunne. 

This Middle English long line, of either six or seven stresses or accents, is 
found in Skelton's Mag?iyfyce?ice, and other early Plays. 

In Roister Doister, on the whole, the lines of six accents seem to prevail, lines 
corresponding to the Middle English Alexandrine, or in Udall's case perhaps 
rather to the classical senariusy to the trimeter of the Roman comedy as under- 
stood by Udall. But a great number 0I septeiiarii occur at the side of these 
senarii, distributed all over the play, and in the speeches of different persons. 

In many cases it seems even doubtful whether a verse should be regarded 
as a senarius or a septenarius. 

Specimens of the Senarius : — 

Truepen | ie get | thee in || thou shalt | among | them knowe 

I will I speake out | aloude || I care | not who | heare it. 

Specimens of the Septenarius (the syllable before the csesura or the end of 
the line with a slighter, secondary accent, produces this septenarius in most 
cases) : — 

I go' I now Tri'st | ram Tru'st | y^ || I tha'nk | you' | right mu'ch | 

And see' ] that in' I case I' || should neede' | to come' | to arm' | ing.^ 

Senarii or Septenarii : — 

Yet a fi'tter wi'fe for you'r || ma'ship mi'ght be fou'nde. 
or • Ye't a fi'tter wi'fe for you'r || ma'ship mi'ght be fou'nde. 

Such a good'ly ma'n as you' || mi'ght get on'e with la'nde. 
or : Such' a good'ly ma'n as you' 1| mi'ght get on'e with la nde. 

B. The Figure of the Miles Gloriosus in English Literature. — 

The limits of this edition forbid any detailed account of the pedigree of the 
type of the Miles Gloriosus in English Literature, but for the benefit of the 
student, I wish to give the following references : — 

On the Miles Gloriosus of the Ancients, cf. the classical account in 
Otto Ribbeck's AlaxoUy Ein Beitrag zur Antiken Ethologie und zur Kennt- 

189 



190 Appendix 

niss der Griech'uch-Romischen Tragodie^ Leipzig, 1882. Cf. further the 
masterly sketches in the History of Roman Literature (Leipzig, 1887 ; i, 66 ; 
83) by the same author; the shorter account, ** JJber die Figuren des Miles 
Gloriosus und seines Parasiten bei alter en und neueren Dichtern,^^ by A. O. F. 
Lorenz (as an appendix to the same scholar's edition of Plautus, Mil. Glor.y 
Berhn, 1886; pp. 230 seq.^. The fullest collection of material for a gen- 
eral history of this classical type in modern literature is contained in Karl 
von Reinhardstoettner, Plautus, Spatere Bearbeitungen Plautinischer Lustspieky 
Leipzig, 1886 (pp. 130/^^., 595-680). 

On the Mil. Glor. in English Literature, cf. the excellent dissertation 
by Herman Graf, Der Mil. Glor. im Englischen Drama bis zur Zeit des 
BUrgerkrieges Rostock y s. a. [1891 ; cf. Koch's note in Englische StudieUy 
18, 134]. 

On the Shakespearian *' quadrifoil," Falstaff, Parolles, Armado, Pistol, 
c'i. the charming causerie by Julius Thiimmel : Der Mil. Glor. bei Shake- 
speare [published first in the Shakespeare Jahrbuch of 1878, and, later, in 
the same author's Shakespeare Charakterey Halle, 1887, Vol. L pp. 257- 
276]. 

C. Titiville (I. i, 21). — * Tuteville ' was originally the name of a devil 
in the French Mystery Plays (cf. Mone, Schauspiele des MittelalterSy 2, 27)^; 
from the French Mystery play the name was introduced into the Mys- 
teries of Germany, England,^ and Holland. His diabolical occupation is 
thus defined in the Myroure of our e Ladye (i ch. 20; cf. Blunt' s note, 
342; as well as Skeat's to Pierce Plowm.y C. xiv, 123): *<I am a poure 
dyuel and my name is Tytyuyllus ... I muste eche day . . . brynge 
my master a thousande pokes [bags] full of faylynges, & of neglygences in 
syllables and wordes that are done in youre order in redynge and in syngynge, 
& else I must be sore beten." 

This * function ' of the Devil seems to allow a connection ^ with the Latin 

1 Cf. /^., the collection of French names of the Devil j and similar collections in Gosche's 
Jahrbuch^ I.; Osbom, Teufehlitteratur, 1 6. The English Devil is still waiting for his 
Historian ! 

2 Cf. Toivneley Myst. (jfuditium, p. 310, etc. ) : Tutivillus (to the Primus Daemon) : — 

I was youre chefe tollare 
And sitten courte rollar 
Now am I master Lollar &c. 

Gower, too, knows Titivillus ; Vox Clamantisy 232 : — 

Hie est eonfessor Domini, sed nee Dominarum, 
^lui magis est blandus, quam Titi'villus eis. 

3 There could not be a connection with : Titimallus — Titan (Joh. de Janua). 



Appendix 1 9 1 



titivillitiumy^ *'a vile thyng of no value" (Cooper), something very small 
and trifling, like the ** faylynges and neglygences in syllables" in praying 
and reading of the church offices. 

In Udall's time the ancient Devil had degenerated, and his name had be- 
come a byword for a low, miserable fellow ; cf. the play of Thersites 
(Dodsley, i, 424): — 

Tinkers and taborers, tipplers, taverners, 
Tittifills, triflers, turners and trumpers, 

and Hey wood's Proverbs , i ch. 10 (40): — 

There is no moe such titifyls in Englandes ground || To hold with the hare and run with the hound. 

D. Mumblecmst and the Maids (I. iii.). — i. Mumblecrust. Cooper 
quotes the same name from Dekker's SatiromastiXy and a Madge Mumble- 
crust from Misogonus (1577). Jack M. is the name of a beggar in Patient 
Grissely IV. iii (cf. Cooper). Different compounds are Mumble-news 
(Shakesp. L.L.L. V. ii, 464) and Sir John Mumble-matins (Pilkington, 
Exposition upon Aggeus, i, 2). 

2. Tibet. Tib (= Isabella) was the typical servant's name ; cf. G. G. N. ; 
Tib and Tom in AiP s Well, II. ii, 24; "every coistrel inquiring for his 
Tib," Pericles y IV. vi, 176, etc. 

3. In Aly face : the first part indicates the colour of her nose and the desire 
of her heart. 

The whole dialogue of these women takes us back to the times when it 
was no dishonour to women to go '* to the ale " and enjoy themselves there 
with their gossips ; cf. P. Ply C. 7, 362 ; Chester PL, i, 53, etc. 

E. The Mock Requiem (III. iii, 53) is one of the latest instances of 
parodies of church services such as are found everywhere in the literature 
of the Middle Ages. One of the oldest of such parodies is the Drunkard's 
MasSy Missa GulcSy printed in Halliwell and Wright's Reliquia Antiques y 2, 
208 (cf the Paternoster Goli^), the Officium Lusorum (printed in Carmina 
Bur ana y 248); the Sequentia falsi evangelii sec. Mar cam {Initium S. Evan- 
gem sec. marcas argenti) in Du Meril, Poes. Pop. Lat. Ant. XII. s. p. 407, etc. 

In English Lit. we find similar parodies in the Requiem to the Favourites 
of Henry VI. (Ritson's Songs y 10 1 ; Furnivall's Polit. Re I. and Love Songs, 6 : 
For Jake Napes Sowle, Placeboy and Dirige) ; in Passages of the Court of 
Love (Chalmers, Engl. Poets y i, 377), in the Placebo Dilexi in Skelton's 

iFreund's Diet, quotes it from Plautus, Casin. 2, 5, 39 : Non ego istud verhum empsitem 
titivillitio. The learned Benjonson knew the word (Silent Woman, 4, i): — 

Wife! buz? titivilitium 
There's no such thing in nature ! 



192 Appendix 

* 

Phyllyp Spar owe (perhaps the source for Udall's happy thought); in Dunbar's 
Will of Maister An dr. Kennedy, etc. 

The parallels to Udall's parody are to be found in Maskell's Monumenta 
Ritualia,^ in the Manuale et Processionale ad usum insignis Eccles, Eboracen- 
sisy^ or in the Rituale Roman um.^ 

The references are, for — 

1. The Placebo Dilexi (Ps. 114), Man. Ebor. 60; Sarum 57*. 

2. The Antiphona Ne quando {rapiat ut leo animam meam, etc., Ps. 7], 
Ebor. 67. 68 ; Sarum 69*; Rit. Rom. 166. 167. 

3. The Antiphona Dirige \_Domine Deus mens in conspectu tuo viam 
meam\y Ebor. 65 ; Sarum 62*; Rit. Rom. 166, etc. 

4. A porta inferi [Erue Domine animas eorum\ , Sarum 58*; Rit. Rom. 168. 

5. Requiem ieternam \_dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis'], Ebor. 
64 ; Sarum 59*. 

6. The *Epistola' Audivi vocem \Lectio Libri Apoc. J oh. 14, 13], 
Sarum 76*; Rit. Rom. 158. 

7. yYiQ Responsorium : Qui Lazarum [resuscitasti a monumento fcetidum~\f 
Ebor. 69 ; R. Rom. 169. 

8. The Antiphona: In Paradisum \_deducant te Angeli\, Rit. Rom. 
150, etc. 

It is needless to say that Merygreeke does not adhere strictly to the order 
of the Ritual, but produces a humorous jumble. 

The words neque lux neque crux are not in the Ritual, but refer to the * order 
about the wax taper '^ and the crucifix in the extreme unction, etc. See 
Maskell, I. ccxcviii. ; the * clinke ' ^ refers to the sounding of the passing 
bell (supposed to drive away evil spirits)^. Latimer remarks about such 

1 Inhumatio defuncti, I, 142 ; cf. also his 'dissertation' on the order of the Burial, ib. 
CCXCIII. 

2 Ed. Surtees Soc. 1875, P- 6° 5 ^^- '^m Commendatio Animarum 56* j De Modo Dicendi 
Exsequias defunctorum ad usum Sarum 80*. 

3 Chapter De Exequiis ; Officium Defunctorum. 

* Cf. Jb. , cerei qui cum cruce et thuribulo de more . . . portabantur accensi ; unto the 
holy candle commit we our souls at our last departing, Tindale, Works, i, 225; ib. 48; 
3, 140, etc. J on the wax candle and driving the Devil away, cf. Latimer, Sermons, 27 (499). 
The reformers were as much against the candles as against the bells, and other * popish supersti- 
tions ' ; cf. Grindal's Visitation Book (1551-52), 1^ 40, 46, etc. 

5 Cf. Brand's Pop. Ant. 2, 220. 

6 Cf. Durandus Rationale^ Lib. I. fol. 9 {De Campanis): << Uerum aliquo morlente campanae 
debent pulsari ut populus hoc audiens oret pro illoj pro muliere quidem bis . . . pro viro vero 
ter pulsatur," etc. The superstitious background was that the bells were believed to drive away 
evil spirits. Cf ib., "campanae pulsantur ut demones timentes fugiant . . . haec etiam est 
causa quare ecclesia videns concitari tempestates campanas pulsat ut demones tubas eterni regis 
id est campanas audientes territi fugiant et a tempestatis concitatione quiescant et ut campanae pul- 
sationes fideles admoneant et prouocent pro instanti periculo orationi insistere," and Brand's Pop. 
Ant. 2, 202. 



Appendix 193 

'fooleries * : *'The devil should have no abiding place in England if ringing 
of bells would serve " (^Serm,, 27, 498), and the English reformers w^ere, on 
the whole, of Liatimer' s opinion ; ^ but there were more tolerant men who 
ultimately prevailed, and so in course of time one short peal before the 
funeral was allowed, and one after it,^ and even a threefold peal was per- 
mitted by Whitgift.^ 

On the history of the Funeral Bell, valuable material is contained in the 
Parker Soc. * Index, ^ s.v. Bells (cf. ib. sub. * Candles'). 

III. iii, 81, 83 : * Pray for,' etc. If this passage were in a serious con- 
text, interesting deductions could be drawn from it as to Udall's religious 
views, and perhaps as to the date of the play. Prayers for the dead were 
entirely against the spirit and doctrines of the early Reformers. But here 
also less radical views were held, and so we find the Prayer enjoined by 
Cranmer, 1534 (^Worksy 2, 460), by Edward VI. (Injunctions, 1547, ib, 
504). To mock the prayer would probably have been unsafe between 1547 
and 1556, when Udall died. Edward's Common Prayer Book of 1549 re- 
tains the prayer for the dead (p. 88, 145), but the edition of 1552 is silent 
about it {ib. 272, 319). In Elizabeth'' s Primer of 1559 this Prayer is re- 
introduced (cf. Priv. Prayers, 59, 6j^-y but later Protestants again condemn 
it, e.g. Whitgift (1574), 3, 364. 

F. Roister as * vagrant.' IV. iii, 104. — Of all the statutes against 
vagrants, that of i Edward VI. (c. 3), 1547, affords the best parallel to 
Custance's resolute and humorous words. This law determines that ** who- 
soever . . . being not lame shall either like a seruing-man wanting a master, 
or like a beggar or after any such other sort be lurking in any house or houses, 
or loitering, or idle wandering by the high wayes side, or in streets, cities, 
townes, or villages . . . then euery such person shall bee taken for a vaga- 
bond, . . . and it shalbe lawfull ... to any . . . person espying the 
same, to bring or cause to be brought the said person so lining idle and loiter- 
ingfyy to two of the next justices of the peace," etc. 

G. The prayer and * song ' at the end of the play. V. vi, 47. — I am 
inclined to think that the song which * they sing ' according to the stage 
direction, is not given,^ and that verses 47-59 are spokeny and represent the 
* prayer' which the actors would all say kneeling (cf. Nares's Glossary y s.v. 
'kneel'). That the * Queene ' referred to is Elizabeth, and not Mary, 
becomes clear from the words *' God graunt hir as she doth, the Gospell to 

1 bells . . . with such other vanities, Tindale, 3, 258 ; ape's play, ib. 283, etc. 
'^ Grindal, Works, 136. 

3 3, 362 ; Injunctions at York, 1571, 8 ; Articles at Canterbury, 1576, 9. 
* Collier, Hist. Dram. Poetry, 2, 459, thinks the whole epilogue is ' sung..' 
O 



1 94 Appendix 

protect. This proves, too, that these words are not by Udall, but by the 
unknown hand that prepared the play for the press under Elizabeth. 
H. Works quoted in the notes. — 

Arber. The editions of Roister Doister in Arber's English Reprints — 

1. of July I, 1869. 

2. of July 24, 1869. 

N.B. The only difference which I have found between the two reprints is 
the absence of one line [III. iv, 66] on p. 51 in the ed. of July 24 ; the line 
is contained in ed. of July i, 1869. 

Camden. Proverbs in * Remaines concerning Britaine.' London, 1623. 
Cooper. Ralph Roister Doister, a comedy, ed. by W. D. Cooper, London. 

Printed for the Shakespeare Society, 1847. 
Cotgrave. a French and EngHsh Dictionary, ed. 1650 (with the addition 

of Dictionaire Anglais & Francois, by Robert Sherwood. [ist ed. 

.6.1.] 

DODSLEY, S. HaZLITT. 

Flugel. Neuenglisches Lesebuch von Ewald Fliigel, Vol. L **Die Zeit 

Heinrich's Vm." Halle, 1895. 
Halliwell. a Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, by J. O. Halli- 

well. London, 1847. 
Hazlitt. Edition of Roister Doister in ''A Select Collection of Old 

English Plays," originally published by Robert Dodsley, 1744. 

Fourth ed. by W. Carew HazHtt. London, 1874 (Vol. 3). 
Heywood. The Proverbs of John Hey wood [first published in 1546? 

and reprinted from ed. 1598 by Julian Sharman] . London, 1874. 
Epigrams [reprinted from ed. 1562]. Printed for the Spenser Society, 

1867. 
Palsgrave. Lesclarcissement de la Langue Francoyse compose par Maistre 

Jehan Palsgraue, 1530. Pub. par F. Genin. Paris, 1852. 
Ray. a Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, by J. Ray. Third ed. 

London, 1742. 



W^illiam Stevenson 



GAMMER GURTONS 
NEDLE 



Edited with Critical Essay 
and Notes by Henry Brad- 
ley, Hon, M,A.y Oxford 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

Date of the Play and its Authorship. — The title-page of the earliest 
known edition of Ga?nmer Gurtons Nedle^ printed by Thomas Col- 
well in 1575, states that this "right pithy, pleasaunt, and merie 
comedie" was " played on stage, not longe ago, in Christes Colledge 
in Cambridge," and that it was " made by Mr. S., Mr. of Art." 
There is here no intimation that any former edition had appeared. 
But the register of the Company of Stationers shows that in the 
year ending 22 July, 1563, Colwell paid 4d. for licence to print a 
play entitled Dyccon of Bedlam^ etc. \ and as " Diccon the Bedlam " 
is a most important character in Gammer Gurtons Nedle (his name, 
by good right, standing first in the list of dramatis personce)^^ there 
is a fair presumption that the piece for which Colwell obtained a 
licence in 1562-3 was in substance identical with that which he 
actually printed in 1575 under another title.^ Whether Dyccon was 
really published in or soon after 1563, or whether Colwell for some 
reason or other allowed twelve years to elapse before carrying out 
his intention of publishing the play, cannot now be determined with 
certainty; the balance of probability seems, however, to be in 
favour of the latter supposition.^ 

The identity of " Mr. S., Master of Art," to whom the author- 
ship of the comedy is ascribed on the title-page, appears to be dis- 
coverable by means of certain evidence contained in the bursar's 
books of Christ's College, for the knowledge of which the present 
editor is indebted to the kindness of the Master of that college, 

1 The alternative possibility is that Gammer Gurton was a sequel to Dyccon. In that case 
the two plays would most probably be by the same author, so that the value of the argument 
in the next paragraph would hardly be affected. 

2 Partly because the title-page of 1575 contains no indication that the play had been pnnted 
before, and partly because (as will be shown) there is some evidence that the publication was 
delayed after the title had been changed. It would be interesting to know whether a second 
licence was obtained for printing the play under its later name ; b\it there happens to be a gap m 
the detailed accounts of the Stationers Company extending from 1571 to 1576. 

197 



198 



William Stevenson 



Dr. Peile. If we are right in identifying Gammer Gurtons Nedle 
with the play which was licenced to the printer in the year ending 
22 July, 1563, the performance at Christ's College must have taken 
place before that date, for it was not the custom to send a play to 
the press before it had been acted. Now, in the academic year 
ending Michaelmas, 1563, there is no record of any dramatic repre- 
sentation having been given in the college. In the preceding year, 
1561—62, the accounts mention certain sums "spent at Mr. Chath- 
erton's playe." The person referred to is William Chaderton, then 
Fellow of Christ's ; but, as his name does not begin with S, this 
entry does not concern our inquiry. In 1560-61 there is no 
mention of any play; but in 1559-60 we find the two following 
items : — 

*«To the viales at Mr. Chatherton's plaie, 2j. 6^/' 

"Spent at Mr. Stevenson's plaie, 5/.'* 

As no evidence to the contrary has been found, it appears highly 
probable that the "Mr. S." of Gammer Gurtons Nedle was William 
Stevenson, Fellow of Christ's College from 1559 to 156 1. It is 
further probable that he is identical with the person of the same 
name who was Fellow of the college from 1551 to 1554,^ and who 
appears in the bursar's accounts as the author of a play acted in the 
year 1553—54. It may be presumed that he was deprived of his 
fellowship under Queen Mary, and was reinstated under Elizabeth. 
Whether Stevenson's play of 1559-60 was the same which had 
been given six years before, or whether it was a new one, there is 
no evidence to show. The former supposition, however, derives 
some plausibility from the fact that, as several critics have pointed 
out, the allusions to church matters in Gammer Gurtons Nedle seem 
to indicate a pre-Elizabethan date for its composition.^ At all 
events it seems likely that the play of 1553-54 was in English, for 

1 If the Stevenson of 1559-61 was not identical with his namesake, some record of his 
graduations and matriculation ought to exist. But Dr. Peile, who has taken the trouble to 
search through the university registers for several years prior to 1559, informs me that no such 
record can be found. 

2 The reference to the king, moreover, in Act V. ii, 236 would strengthen the probability 
that the play of 1575 (and 1559-60) was originally composed during Stevenson's first fellow- 
ship ; at any rate before the death of Edward VI. It might therefore be identical with the play 
acted in 1553-4. — Gen. Ed. 



William Stevenson 1 99 

the accounts speak of a Latin play (managed by another Fellow, 
named Persevall) as having been performed in the same year. 

Of Stevenson's history nothing is know^n, beyond the bare facts 
that he was born at Hunwick in Durham, matriculated as a sizar 
in November, 1546, became B.A. in 1549-50, M.A. in 1553, and 
B.D. in 1560. He was ordained deacon in London in 1552, ap- 
pointed prebendary of Durham in January, 1560—61, and died in 
1575, the year in which Gammer Gurton was printed. 

It may at first sight appear to be a formidable objection to 
Stevenson's authorship of the play, that the title-page of the edition 
of 1575 speaks of the representation at Cambridge as having taken 
place " not longe ago.*" But Colwell had had the MS. in his pos- 
session ever since 1563 ; and there is nothing unlikely in the suppo- 
sition that the wording of the original title-page was retained without 
any other alteration than the change in the name of the piece. 
The title-page, it may be remarked, is undated, the tablet at the foot, 
which is apparently intended to receive the date, being left blank. 
This fact may possibly indicate that when the printing of the vol- 
ume was begun it was anticipated that its publication might have to 
be delayed for some time.^ The appearance of the title-page suggests 
the possibility that it may have been altered after being set up : 
" Gammer gur- \ tons Nedle " in small italic may have been substi- 
tuted for Diccon of | Bedlam in type as large as that of the other 
words in the same lines. In Colwell's edition of Ingelend's Diso- 
bedient Child (printed 1560) the title-page has the same woodcut 
border, but the name of the piece is in type of the same size as that 
of the preceding and following words. As this woodcut does not 
occur in any other of Colwell's publications now extant, it seems 
reasonable to infer that Gammer Gurton was printed long before 1575. 

Former Attributions of Authorship. — It is necessary to say some- 
thing about the two persons to whom the authorship of Gammer 
Gurtons Nedle has hitherto been attributed — Dr. John Bridges, who 
was in succession Dean of Salisbury and Bishop of Oxford, and 
Dr. John Still, who was made Bishop of Bath and Wells in 1593. 

1 Too much importance must not, however, be attached to this, as the same thing is found 
in the title-page of The Disobedient Childy above referred to. The date of 1575 for our comedy 
tt given in the colophon at the end of the book. See also p. 206 n. 



200 William Stevenson 

It is curious that both the distinguished churchmen who have been 
credited with the composition of this very unclerical play received 
the degree of D.D. in the same year in which it was published. 

The evidence on which it has been attempted to assign the play 
to John Bridges is contained in certain passages of the " Martin 
Marprelate " tracts. In the first of these, the Epistle^ published in 
1588, the author addresses Bridges in the following terms: — 

** You have bin a worthy writer, as they say, of a long time ; your first 
book was a proper enterlude, called Gammar Gurtons Needle. But I think 
that this trifle, which sheweth the author to have had some witte and inven- 
tion in him, was none of your doing, because your books seeme to proceede 
from the braynes of a woodcocke, as having neither wit nor learning. ' ' 

In his second pamphlet, the Epitome^ " Martin Marprelate " twice 
alludes to the dean's supposed authorship of the play, in a manner 
which conveys the impression that he really believed in it. None 
of " Martin's " adversaries seem to have contradicted his statement 
on this point, though Cooper in particular was at great pains to 
refute the pamphleteer's " slanders " on other dignitaries. It must 
be admitted that everything that is known of Bridges is decidedly 
favourable to the supposition that he might have written comedy in 
his youth. His voluminous Defence of the Government of the Church 
of England abounds in sprightly quips, often far from dignified in 
tone ; and his controversial opponents complained, with some jus- 
tice, of his " buffoonery." He is recorded by Harrington to have 
been a prolific writer of verse ; and that his interests were not 
exclusively theological appears from the fact that he is said to have 
translated, in 1558, three of Machiavelli's Discourses.^ having pre- 
viously resided in Italy. The only reason for rejecting " Martin 
Marprelate's " attribution of Gammer Gurtons Nedle to him is that 
he was not " Mr. S.," and that he belonged not to Christ's College, 
but to Pembroke. But as he was resident at Cambridge in 1560 
(having taken the degree of A.M. in that year), it is quite possible 
that he may have assisted William Stevenson in the composition or 
revision of the play. 

The name of Bishop Still is so familiar as that of the reputed 
author of Gammer Gurton^ that many readers will be surprised to 



W^illiam Stevenson 201 

learn that this attribution was first proposed in 1782 by Isaac Reed 
in his enlarged edition of Baker's Biographia Dramatica?- Reed 
discovered in the accounts of Christ's College an entry referring 
to a play acted at Christmas, 1567 (not 1566, as he states) ; and as 
this is the latest entry of the kind occurring before 1575, he plausi- 
bly inferred that it related to the representation of Gammer Gurtons 
Nedle^ which in Colwell's title-page was stated to have taken place 
" not long ago." The only Master of Arts of the college then 
living, whose surname began with S, that he was able to find, 
was John Still, whom he therefore confidently identified with the 
" Mr. S." who is said to have written Gammer Gurton. If our 
arguments in favour of Stevenson's authorship be accepted. Reed's 
conclusion of course falls to the ground ; and the character of 
Bishop Still, as it is known from the testimony of several of his 
personal friends, renders it incredible that he can ever have dis- 
tinguished himself as a comic writer. The characteristic quality 
by which he seems chiefly to have impressed his contemporaries 
was his extraordinary seriousness. Archbishop Parker, in 1573, 
speaks of him as " a young man," but " better mortified than some 
other forty or fifty years of age " ; and another eulogist commends 
" his staidness and gravity." If Still's seriousness had been, like 
that of many grave and dignified persons, in any eminent degree 
qualified by wit, there would surely have been some indication of 
the fact in the vivaciously written account of him given by Har- 
rington. But neither there nor elsewhere is there any evidence 
that he ever made a joke, that he ever wrote a line of verse, or 
that he had any interests other than those connected with his sacred 
calling. A fact which has often been remarked upon as strange by 
those who have accepted the current theory of Still's authorship 
of Gammer Gurton is that in 1 592, when he was vice-chancellor 
of Cambridge, his signature, followed by those of other heads of 
houses, was appended to a memorial praying that the queen would 
allow a Latin play to be substituted for the English play which she 
had commanded to be represented by the university actors on the 
occasion of her approaching visit. The memorialists urged that 

1 This title was given by Reed; Baker's original work of 1762 was called A Dictionary 
of the Stage. 



202 William Stevenson 

the performance of English plays had not been customary in the 
university, being thought " nothing beseminge our students." It is 
not necessary to attribute much importance to this incident, but, so 
far as it has any bearing on the question at all, it goes to support 
the conclusion, already certain on other grounds, that the author 
of Gammer Gurtons Nedle cannot have been John Still.^ 

Place in the History of Comedy. — In attempting to assign the place 
of Gammer Gurtotis Nedle in the history of the English drama, we 
should remember that it is the sole surviving example of the ver- 
nacular college comedies — probably more numerous than is com- 
monly suspected — produced during the sixteenth century, and that 
most of the features which appear to us novel were doubtless the 
result of a gradual development. So far as our knowledge goes, 
however, it is the second English comedy conforming to the struct- 
ural type which modern Europe has learned from the example of the 
Roman playwrights. The choice of the old " septenary " measure, 
in which most of the dialogue is written, may have been due to 
recollection of the Terentian iambic tetrameter catalectic, just as the 
rugged Alexandrines of Ralph Roister Doister were probably suggested 
by the Latin comic senarius. But while in Udall's play the matter 
as well as the form is largely of classical origin, the plot and the 
characters of Gammer Gurtons Nedle are purely native. Its material 
is drawn at first hand from observation of English life ; its literary 
ancestry, so far as it has any, is mainly to be traced through John 
Heywood's interludes to the farces of the fifteenth-century mysteries, 
of which one brilliant example is preserved in the Secunda Pastorum 
of the Towneley cycle. 

The artistic merit of the piece has often been unduly depreciated, 
from causes which it is not diflicult to understand. The very rudi- 
mentary kind of humour which turns on physically disgusting sug- 
gestions is no longer amusing to educated people, and there is so 
much of this poor stuff in the play that the real wit of some scenes, 
and the clever portraiture of character throughout, have not received 
their fair share of acknowledgment. Most people who have lived 

1 The arguments against Still's authorship of Gammer Gurton^ and in favour of that of Bridges, 
are stated at length in an article by Mr. C. H. Ross in the nineteenth volume of Anglia (1896). 
to which we are indebted for several useful references. 



1 



William Stevenson 203 

long in an English village will recognise Gammer Gurton and Dame 
Chat as capital studies from life, though their modern representa- 
tives are not quite so foul-mouthed in their wrath as the gossips of 
the sixteenth century ; and Hodge, whose name has become the 
conventional designation of the English farm labourer, is an equally 
lifelike figure. The brightly drawn character of Diccon represents 
a type which the working of the poor laws, and many social changes, 
have banished from our villages. But old people who were living 
down to the middle of this century had many stories to tell of the 
crazy wanderer, who was recognised as too feather-brained to be 
set to any useful work, but who was a welcome guest in cottage 
homes, and whose pranks were looked on with kindly toleration by 
well-disposed people, even when they led to inconvenient conse- 
quences.i The game of cross-purposes brought about by Diccon's 
machinations, which forms the plot, is humorously imagined, and 
worked out with some skill. It does not, of course, rise above the 
level of farce ; but there is real comedy, not quite of the lowest 
order, in the scene where the fussy self-importance of Dr. Rat, burst- 
ing with impotent rage at his well-merited discomfiture, is confronted 
with the calm impartiality of " Master Baily " — the steward of the 
lord of the manor, apparently, and the representative of temporal 
authority in the village. The common verdict that Gammer Gur~ 
tons Nedle is a work of lower rank than Ralph Roister Doister is 
perhaps on the whole not unjust , but the later play has some merits 
of its own, and, as the first known attempt to present a picture of 
contemporary rustic life in the form of a regular comedy, it may be 
admitted to represent a distinct advance in the development of 
English dramatic art. 

Dialect. — The treatment of dialect in the play demands a word 
of notice. All the characters, except the curate and the baily, who 
belong to the educated class, and Diccon, who may be presumed to 
have come down from a better social station than that of the village 
people, use a kind of speech which is clearly intended to represent the 
dialect of the southwestern counties. It is not always very correct ; 

1 Of course it is not meant that these persons corresponded exactly to the type represented by 
Diccon — the ex-patient of Bethlehem Hospital, discharged as being supposed to be cured or 
rendered harmless, and wearing a badge indicating the possession of a licence to beg. 



204 William Stevenson 

the writer, for instance, seems to have thought that cham stood for 
"am" as well as "I am," so that he makes Hodge say "cham I 
not." Stevenson, as we have seen, was of northern birth ; and, as 
a line or two in the same dialect is found in Ralph Roister Doister^ 
there is some reason for believing that the dialect of the stage rustic 
was already a matter of established convention.^ The word pes^ a 
hassock, which occurs in the play, is peculiar, so far as is known, to 
the East Anglian dialect, and may have been picked up by the author 
in his walks about Cambridge. Whether derived from Gammer 
Gurton or from plays of earlier date, the conventional dialect of 
the stage rustic kept its place throughout the Elizabethan period. 
Shakspere's rustics, as is well known, mostly use the southwestern 
forms, not those current in the poet's native Warwickshire. 

The Present Text. — The text of the present edition is taken from 
the copy of Colwell's edition (1575) in the Bodleian Library. The 
original spelling has been preserved, except thaty and v are substi- 
tuted for / and u when used as consonants, and u for v when used 
as a vowel. Obvious misprints have been corrected, but are men- 
tioned in the footnotes (except in the case of mere errors of word- 
division, which it seemed unnecessary to notice). The punctuation, 
and the use of initial capitals, have been conformed to modern prac- 
tice. Another copy of Colwell's edition is in the British Museum. 
The play was reprinted in 1661, and, with modernised spelling, in 
Dodsley's Old Plays^ and in the new edition of Dodsley by W. C. 
Hazlitt. An excellent edition, with the original spelling, was pub- 
lished in 1897 ^y Professor J. M. Manly, in vol. ii. of his Specimens 
of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama. Several of the readings which are 
given in Professor Manly's text or footnotes as those of Colwell's 
edition do not agree with those either of the London or the Oxford 
copy. In the footnotes to the present edition reference to Colwell's, 
Hazlitt's, and Manly's editions are indicated by Ed. 1575, H. and 
M., respectively. 

Henry Bradley. 

1 In Pikeryng's Horestes ( 1 567), which is some years earlier than the first known publication 
of Gammer Gurton, the country characters (one of whom is named Hodge) speak a strongly 
marked southwestern dialect. 



' 






Pithy, Pleafaunt and me 

tit ComeDie : %m 

t^tUlcD Gammer gur^ 

tons Nedle : plagttl on 

Stage, not longe 

age in Ci)ri= 

rtes 

Colledge in Cambridge 
Made by Mr. S. Mr. of Art. 

Smprgnteti at iLontron \\k 

jjlecte ftreet bmeti) \\i (fTon^ 

tjuit at tf)c figne of S. 3oi)n 

ISbangeliCt bg d)o= 

;wtfj Colwell. 


' 





The Names of the Speakers in this 
Comedie 



DiccoN,^ the Be diem. 

Hodge, ^ Gammer Gurtons servante» 

Tyb, Gammer Gurtons mayde. 

Gammer Gurton. 

CocKE,^ Gammer ^ Gurtons boye. 

Dame Chatte. 

Doctor Rat, the Curate. 

Mayster Baylye. 

Doll, Dame Chattes mayde. 

Scapethryft,^ Mayst. Beylies servante. 

Mutes. 

God Save the gueene. 



1 The older form of Dick, nickname for Richard. 

2 Nickname for Roger. 

* Misprinted Docke. 

* Professor Manly gives scapethryk as the reading of the edition of 1575 ; but in the copies 
in the Bodleian Library and in the British Museum the name is printed correctly. 

P. 205 represents the title-page (but without the border) to which I refer on p. 199. 
Mr. W. J. Lewis points out to me that this woodcut title-page had been used previously by 
William Copland, in 1553, for his editions of Douglas's Mnen and Palice of Honour. 



Gammer Gurtons Nedle 



The Prologue. AH 

As Gammer Gurton with manye a wyde styche 

Sat pesynge and patching of Hodg her mans briche, 

By chance or misfortune, as shee her geare tost, 
In Hodge lether bryches her needle shee lost. 
When Diccon the bedlem had hard by report 5 

That good Gammer Gurton was robde in thys sorte, 
He quyetly perswaded with her in that stound ^ 
Dame Chat, her deare gossyp, this needle had found ; 
Yet knew shee no more of this matter, alas ! 
Then knoeth Tom, our clarke, what the priest saith at 
masse. lO 

Hereof there ensued so fearfull a fraye, 
Mas 2 Doctor was sent for, these gossyps to staye. 
Because he was curate, and estemed full wyse ; 
Who found that he sought not, by Diccons device. 
When all thinges were tombled and cleane out of fassion, 15 
Whether it were by fortune, or some other constellacion, 
Sodenlye the neele Hodge found by the prickynge. 
And drew it out of his bottocke, where he felt it stickynge. 
Theyr hartes then at rest with perfect securytie, 
With a pot of good nale they stroake up theyr plauditie. 20 

1 moment, time. ^ a common contraction for master. 

207 



2o8 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. i 

The fyrst Acte. The fyrst Sceane. 

DiCCON. 

D'lccon. Many a myle have I walked, divers and sundry waies, 
And many a good mans house have I bin at in my daies ; 
Many a gossips cup in my tyme have I tasted, 
And many a broche ^ and spyt have I both turned and basted ; 
Many a peece of bacon have I had out of thir balkes, 5 

In ronnyng over the countrey, with long and were walkes ; 
Yet came my foote never within those doore cheekes. 
To seeke flesh or fysh, garlyke, onyons, or leeke[s]. 
That ever I saw a sorte ^ in such a plyght 
As here within this house appereth to my syght. 10 

There is howlynge and scowlyng, all cast in a dumpe. 
With whewling and pewling, as though they had lost a 
trump. A ii b 

Syghing and sobbing, they weepe and they wayle ; 
I marvell in my mynd what the devill they ayle. 
The olde trot sy ts groning, with alas ! and alas ! 1 5 

And Tib wringes her hands, and takes on in worse case. 
With poore Cocke, theyr boye, they be dryven in such fyts, 
I feare mee the folkes be not well in theyr wyts. 
Aske them what they ayle, or who brought them in this staye. 
They aunswer not at all, but " alacke ! " and " welaway ! " 20 
Whan I saw it booted not, out at doores I hyed mee. 
And caught a slyp of bacon,' when I saw that none spyed mee, 
Which I intend not far hence, unles my purpose fayle. 
Shall serve for a shoinghorne to draw on two pots of ale. 

1 * Broche ' and * spit ' are synonymous. 

2 set of people, company ; cf. Heywood, Play of the Wether^ 1. 94. 



I 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 209 

The fyrst Acte. The second Sceane. 

Hodge. Diccon. 

Hodge. See ! so cham ^ arayed with dablynge in the durt ! 

She that set me to ditchinge, ich wold she hat the squrt ! 

Was never poore soule that such a life had. 

Gogs bones ! thys vylthy glaye hase drest me to bad ! 

Gods soule ! see how this stufFe teares ! 5 

Iche were better to bee a bearward and set to keepe beares ! 

By the Masse, here is a gasshe, a shamefuU hole in deade ! 

And one stytch teare furder, a man may thrust in his heade. 
Diccon, By my fathers soule, Hodge, if I shoulde now be sworne, 

I can not chuse but say thy breech is foule betorne, lO 

But the next remedye in such a case and hap 

Is to plaunche on a piece as brode as thy cap. 
Hodge. Gogs soule, man, tis not yet two dayes fully ended 

Synce my dame Gurton, chem sure, these breches amended ; 

But cham made suc[h]e a drudge to trudge at euery neede, 15 

Chwold rend it though it were stitched with 2 sturdy pacthreede. 
Diccon. Ho [d] ge, let thy breeches go, and speake and tell mee soone 

What devill ayleth Gammer Gurton & Tib her mayd to frowne. 
Hodge. Tush, man, thart deceyved : tys theyr dayly looke ; 

They coure so over the coles, theyre eyes be bleared with 

smooke. ^^ 

Diccon. Nay, by the masse, I perfectly perceived, as I came hether. 

That eyther Tib and her dame hath ben by the eares together. 

Or els as great a matter, as thou shalt shortly see. 
Hodge. Now, iche beseeche our Lord they never better agree ! 
Diccon. By Gogs soule, there they syt as still as stones in the streite. 

As though they had ben taken with fairies, or els with some il 
sprite. 20 

1 I am. The rustic dialect in the piece is conventional, but its general peculiarities are those 
of the southwestern counties ; iche — I, reduced to ch in cham^ chould, or chivold (I would), 
cbivere, etc. The southwestern v for / is not generally used, but occurs below in yyltby^ 
in vast (I. iv. 8), and in -vatbers (II. i. 52) ; glaye for clay is probably not genuine dialect. 

2 Misprinted ivbat. 



2 1 o Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. i 

Hodge. Gogs hart ! I durst have layd my cap to a crowne 

Chwould lerne of some prancome as sone as ich came to town. 
Diccon. Why, Hodge, art thou inspyred ? or dedst thou therof here ? 
Hodge, Nay, but ich saw such a wonder as ich saw nat this seven 
yere. 30 

Tome Tannkards cow, be Gogs bones ! she set me up her saile, 
And flynging about his halfe aker ^ fysking with her taile, 
As though there had ben in her ars a swarme of bees, 
And chad not cryed " tphrowh, hoore," shead lept out of his 
lees. 
Diccon. Why, Hodg, lies the connyng in Tom Tankards cowes 
taile ? 35 

Hodge. Well, ich chave hard some say such tokens do not fayle. 
Bot ca[n]st thou not tell,^ in faith, Diccon, why she frownes, 

or wher at ? 
Hath no man stolne her ducks or hen[n]es, or gelded Gyb, 
her cat ? 
Diccon. What devyll can I tell, man ? I cold not have one word ! 
They gave no more hede to my talk than thow woldst to a lorde. 
Hodge. Iche cannot styll but muse, what mervaylous thinge it is. 

Chyll in and know my selfe what matters are amys. 42 

Diccon. Then fare well, Hodge, a while, synce thou doest inward 
hast. 
For I will into the good wyfe Chats, to feele how the ale doth 
taste. 



The fyrst Acte. The thyrd Sceane. 

Hodge. Tyb. 

Hodge. Cham agast ; by the masse, ich wot not what to do. 
Chad nede blesse me well before ich go them to. 
Perchaunce some felon sprit may haunt our house indeed ; 
And then chwere but a noddy to venter where cha no neede. 

1 H. prints * halse aker,' with the following absurd note : " I believe we should read baht 
anchor^ or anker ^ as it was anciently spelt 5 a naval phrase." ^ EJ^ 1575 till. 



sc. Ill] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 211 

Tyh, Cham worse then mad, by the masse, to be at this staye ! 5 

Cham chyd, cham blamd, and beaton, all thoures on the daye; 

Lamed and honger-storved, prycked up all in jagges, 

Havyng no patch to hyde my backe, save a few rotten ragges ! 
Hodge. I say, Tyb — if thou be Tyb, as I trow sure thou bee, — 

What devyll make a doe is this, betweene our dame and 

thee ? I o 

Tyh, Gogs breade, Hodg, thou had a good turne thou wart not 

here [this while] ! A Hi b 

It had been better for some of us to have ben hence a myle j 

My gammer is so out of course and frantyke all at ones. 

That Cocke, our boy, and I, poore wench, have felt it on our 
bones. 
Hodge. What is the matter — say on, Tib — wherat she taketh 
so on ? 15 

Tyh, She is undone, she sayth, alas ! her joye and life is gone ! 

If shee here not of some comfort, she is, fayth ! ^ but dead ; 

Shal never come within her lyps one inch of meate ne bread. 
Hodge. Byr Ladie, cham not very glad to see her in this dumpe. 

Cholde^ a noble her stole hath fallen, & shee hath broke her 
rumpe. 20 

Tyh. Nay, and that were the worst, we wold not greatly care 

For bursting of her buckle bone, or breaking of her chaire ; 

But greatter, greater, is her grief, as, Hodge, we shall all feele ! 
Hodge. Gogs woundes, Tyb ! my gammer has never lost her neele ? 
Tyh. Her neele ! 

Hodge. Her neele ! 25 

Tyh. Her neele ! 

By him that made me, it is true, Hodge, I tell thee. 
Hodge. Gogs sacrament, I would she had lost tharte out of her bellie ! 

The Devill, or els his dame, they ought ^ her, sure, a shame ! 

How a murryon came this chaunce, say, Tib ! unto our dame ? 

Tyh. My gammer sat her downe on her pes,^ and bad me reach 

thy breeches, 30 

And by and by (a vengeance in it !) or she had take two stitches 

^ Printed sayth. 2 j hold, i.e. *I wager.' ^ owed. 

* *Pess,' a hassock (Rye's East Anglian Glossary^ English Dialect Society). 



2 1 2* Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. i 

To clap a clout upon thine ars, by chaunce asyde she leares, 
And Gyb, our cat, in the milke pan she spied over head and 

eares. 
"Ah, hore ! out, thefe ! " she cryed aloud, and swapt the 

breches downe. 34 

Up went her stafFe, and out leapt Gyb at doors into the towne. 

And synce that tyme was never wyght cold set their eies upon it. 

Gogs malison chave (Cocke and I) bid twenty times light on it. 

Hodge. And is not then my breeches sewid up, to morow that I 

shuld were ? 
Tyh. No, in faith, Hodge, thy breeches lie for al this never the nere. 
Hodge, Now a vengeance light on al the sort, that better shold have 

kept it, 40 

The cat, the house, and Tib, our maid, that better shold have 

swept it ! 
Se where she cometh crawling ! Come on, in twenty devils 

way ! 
Ye have made a fayre dales worke, have you not ? pray you, say ! 



The fyrst Acte. The iiii. Sceane. 

Gammer. Hodge. Tyb. Cocke. 

Gammer. Alas, Hoge, alas ! I may well cursse and ban A iv 

This dale, that ever I saw it, with Gyb and the mylke pan ; 
For these and ill lucke togather, as knoweth Cocke, my boye. 
Have stacke away my deare neele, and robd me of my joye. 
My fayre long strayght neele, that was myne onely treasure ; 5 
The fyrst day of my sorow is, and last end of my pleasure ! 
Hodge. Might ha kept it when ye had it ! but fooles will be fooles 
styll. 
Lose that is vast in your handes ye neede not but ye will. 
Gammer. Go hie the, Tib, and run thou, hoore, to thend here of 
the towne ! ^ 
Didst cary out dust in thy lap ; seeke wher thou porest it 
downe, 10 

1 the ground attached to the house. (Cf. Sc. toun. ) 



sc. iiii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 213 

And as thou sawest me roking, in the ashes where I morned, 
So see in all the heape of dust thou leave no straw unturned. 
Tyh. That chal, Gammer, swythe and tyte,^ and sone be here 

agayne ! 
Gammer. Tib, stoope & loke downe to the ground to it, and take 

some paine. 
Hodge. Here is a prety matter, to see this gere how it goes; 15 

By Gogs soule, I thenk you wold loes your ars, and it were 

loose ! 
Your neele lost, it is pitie you shold lack care and endlesse 

sorow. 
Gogs deth ! how shall my breches be sewid ? Shall I go thus 
to morow ? 
Gammer. Ah Hodg, Hodg ! if that ich cold find my neele, by the 
reed, 
Chould sow thy breches, ich promise the, with full good double 
threed, 20 

And set a patch on either knee shuld last this monethes twaine. 
Now God and good Saint Sithe^ I praye to send it home againe ! 
Hodge. Wherto served your hands and eies, but this your neele to 
kepe ? 
What devill had you els to do ? ye kept, ich wot, no sheepe ! 
Cham faine abrode to dyg and delve, in water, myre, and 
claye, 25 

Sossing and possing in the durte styll from day to daye. 
A hundred thinges that be abrode, cham set to see them weele. 
And four of you syt idle at home, and can not keepe a neele ! 
Gammer. My neele ! alas ! ich lost it, Hodge, what time ich me 
up hasted 
To save the milke set up for the, which Gib, our cat, hath 
wasted. 30 

Hodge. The Devill he burst both Gib and Tib, with al the rest ! 
Cham alwayes sure of the worst end, who ever have the best ! 
Where ha you ben fidging abrode, since you your neele lost ? 
Gammer. Within the house, and at the dore, sitting by this same 
post, 

1 with vigour and speed, promptly. '^ Commonly supposed to mean St. Osyth. 



214 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. i 

Wher I was loking a long howre, before these folks came 
here ; 35 

But welaway, all was in vayne, my neele is never the nere ! 
Hodge. Set me a candle, let me seeke, and grope where ever it bee. 
Gogs hart, ye be so folish, ich thinke, you knowe it not when 
you it see ! 
Gammer. Come hether, Cocke ; what, Cocke, I say ! 
Cocke. Howe, Gammer ? 

Gammer. Goe, hye the soone. 

And grope behynd the old brasse pan, whych thing when thou 
hast done, 40 

Ther shalt thou fynd an old shooe, wherein if thou look well. 
Thou shalt fynd lyeng an inche of a whyte tallow candell. 
Lyght it, and bryng it tite away. 
Cocke. That shalbe done anone. 

Gammer. Nay, tary, Hodge, till thou hast light, and then weele 
seke ech one. 45 

Hodge. Cum away, ye horson boy, are ye aslepe ? ye must have a 

crier ! 
Cocke. Ich cannot get the candel light : here is almost no fier. 
Hodge. Chil hold ^ the a peny chil make the come, if that ich may 
catch thine eares ! 
Art deffe, thou horson boy ? Cocke, I say ; why canst not 
heares ? 
Gammer. Beate hym not, Hodge, but help the boy, and come you 
two together. 



The i Acte. The v Sceane. 

Gammer. Tyb. Cocke. Hodge. 

Gammer. How now, Tib ? quycke, lets here what newes thou hast 

brought hether ! 
Tyh. Chave tost and tumbled yender heap our and over againe. 

And winowed it through my fingers, as men wold winow grain j 

^ wager, bet 5 compare note 2, page loi. Ed. 1575 held. 



i 



I 



sc. v] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 215 

Not so much as a hens turd but in pieces I tare it, 
Or what so ever clod or clay I found, I did not spare it, 5 
Lokyng within and eke without, to fynd your neele, alas ! 
But all in vaine and without help ! your neele is where it was. 

Gammer. Alas my neele ! we shall never meete ! adue, adue, for aye ! 

Tyh. Not so. Gammer, we myght it fynd, if we knew where it laye. 

Cocke. Gogs crosse. Gammer, if ye will laugh, looke in but at the 
doore, 10 

And see how Hodg lieth tombling and tossing amids the floure, 
Rakyng there some fyre to fynd amonge the asshes dead. 
Where there is not one sparke so byg as a pyns head ; 
At last in a darke corner two sparkes he thought he sees. 
Which were indede nought els but Gyb our cats two eyes. 15 
" PufFe ! '* quod Hodg, thinking therby to have fyre without 

doubt ; 
With that Gyb shut her two eyes, and so the fyre was out ; 
And by and by them opened, even as they were before; 
With that the sparkes appered, even as they had done of yore ; 
And even as Hodge blew the fire (as he did thinke), 20 

Gib, as she felt the blast, strayghtway began to wyncke ; 
Tyll Hodge fell of swering, as came best to his turne. 
The fier was sure bewicht, and therfore wold not burne. 
At last Gyb up the stayers, among the old postes and pinnes. 
And Hodge he hied him after, till broke were both his 
shinnes ; 25 

Cursyng and swering othes were never of his makyng. 
That Gyb wold fyre the house if that shee were not taken. 

Gammer. See, here is all the thought that the foolysh urchyn taketh ! 
And Tyb, me thinke, at his elbowe almost as mery maketh. 
This is all the wyt ye have, when others make their mone. 30 
Cum downe, Hodge, where art thou ? and let the cat alone ! 

Hodge. Gogs harte, help and come up ! Gyb in her tayle hath fyre. 

And is like to burne all, if shee get a lytle hier ! 

Cum downe, quoth you ? nay, then you might count me a patch. ^ 

The house commeth downe on your heads, if it take ons the 

thatch. 35 

1 a fool, jester. 



2 1 6 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. h 

Gammer. It is the cats eyes, foole, that shyneth in the darke. 
Hodge. Hath the cat, do you thinke, in every eye a sparke ? 
Gammer. No, but they shyne as lyke fyre as ever man see. 
Hodge. By the masse, and she burne all, yoush beare the blame for mee ! 
Gammer. Cum downe and helpe to seeke here our neele, that it were 
found. 40 

Downe, Tyb, on the knees, I say ! Downe, Cocke, to the 
ground ! 

To God I make avowe, and so to good Saint Anne, 

A candell shall they have a pece, get it where I can. 

If I may my neele find in one place or in other. 
Hodge. Now a vengeaunce on Gyb light, on Gyb and Gybs 
mother, 45 

And all the generacyon of cats both far and nere ! 

Loke on this ground, horson, thinks thou the neele is here ? 
Cocke. By my trouth. Gammer, me thought your neele here I saw. 

But when my fyngers toucht it, I felt it was a straw. 
Tyh. See, Hodge, whats t[h]ys ? may it not be within it ? 50 

Hodge. Breake it, foole, with thy hand, and see and thou canst fynde it. 
Tyh. Nay, breake it you, Hodge, accordyng to your word. 
Hodge. Gogs sydes ! fye ! it sty neks ; it is a cats tourd ! 

It were well done to make thee eate it, by the masse ! 
Gammer. This matter amendeth not; my neele is still where it 
wasse. 55 

Our candle is at an ende, let us all in quight. 

And come another tyme, when we have more lyght. 



The Second Acte. 

First a Song?- 

Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 

Booth foote and hande go colde ; 

But bellye, God send thee good ale ynoughe, 

Whether it be newe or olde. 

1 For the older and better form of this song, see Appendix. 



^c. i] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 217 

I can not eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good ; 

But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 

Thoughe I go bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothinge a colde ; 

I stufFe my skyn so full within 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

I love no rost but a nut browne toste 
And a crab layde in the fyre.^ 
A lytle bread shall do me stead : 
Much breade I not desyre. 
No froste nor snow, no winde, I trowe, 
Can hurte mee if I wolde ; 
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt 
Of joly good ale and olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wyfe, that as her lyfe 
Loveth well good ale to seeke. 
Full ofte drynkes shee tyll ye may see 
The teares run downe her cheeke ; 
Then dooth she trowle to mee the bowle 
Even as a mault worme shuld ; 
And sayth, sweete hart, I tooke my part 
Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke till they nod and winke, 
Even as good felowes shoulde doe; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 
Good ale doth bringe men to ; 

1 A roasted crab-apple was placed in a bowl of ale to give it a flavour and take off the chilL 
Compare Midsummer Night's Dream^ ii. i. 48, and Nashe, Summer s Last Will and Testa- 
ment : — 

Sitting in a corner turning crabs, 

Or coughing o'er a warmed pot of ale. 



21 8 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. n 

And all poore soules that have scowred boules, 
Or have them lustly trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and theyr wyves, 
Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, etc. 



[The Second Acte.] The Fyrst Sceane. 
DiccoN. Hodge. 

Diccon. Well done, by Gogs malt ! well songe and well sayde ! 
Come on, mother Chat, as thou art true mayde. 
One fresh pot of ale lets see, to make an ende 
Agaynst this colde wether my naked armes to defende ! 
This gere it warms the soule ! Now, wind, blow on the worst ! 5 
And let us drink and swill till that our bellies burste ! 
Now were he a wise man by cunnynge could defyne 
Which way my journey lyeth, or where Dyccon will dyne ! 
But one good turne I have : be it by nyght or daye. 
South, east, north or west, I am never out of my waye ! 10 

Hodge. Chym goodly rewarded, cham I not, do you thyncke ? 
Chad a goodly dynner for all my sweate and swyncke ! 
Neyther butter, cheese, mylke, onyons, fleshe, nor fyshe, 
Save this poor pece of barly bread : tis a pleasant costly dishe! 

Diccon. Haile, fellow Hodge, and welH to fare with thy meat, if 
thou have any : 15 

But by thy words, as I them smelled, thy daintrels be not 
manye. 

Hodge. Daintrels, Diccon ? Gogs soule, man, save this piece of 
dry horsbread, 
Cha byt no byt this lyvelonge dale, no crome come in my 

head : 
My gutts they yawle-crawle, and all my belly rumbleth ; 
The puddynges 2 cannot lye still, each one over other tum- 
bleth. 20 

1 Ed. 1575 will. 2 entrails. 



I 



, 



sc. i] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 219 

By Gogs harte, cham so vexte, and in my belly pende, 
Chould one peece were at the spittlehouse, another at the cas- 

telle ende ! 
D'lccon. Why, Hodge, was there none at home thy dinner for to set ? 
Hodge. Gogs 1 bread, Diccon, ich came to late, was nothing there 

to get ! 
Gib (a fowle feind might on her light!) lickt the milke pan 

so clene, 25 

See, Diccon, twas not so well washt this seven yere, as ich 

wene ! 
A pestilence light on all ill lucke ! chad thought, yet for all 

thys 
Of a morsell of bacon behynde the dore at worst shuld not 

misse : 
But when ich sought a slyp to cut, as ich was wont to do, 
Gogs soule, Diccon ! Gyb, our cat, had eate the bacon to ! 30 

( Which bacon Diccon stole y as is declared before. ) 

Diccon. Ill luck, quod he ! mary, swere it, Hodge ! this day, the 
trueth to tel. 
Thou rose not on thy ryght syde, or else blest thee not wel. 
Thy milk slopt up ! thy bacon filtched ! that was to bad luck, 
Hodg ! 
Hodge. Nay, nay, ther was a fowler fault, my Gammer ga me the 
dodge ; 2 
Seest not how cham rent and torn, my heels, my knees, and 
my breech ? o^ 

Chad thought, as ich sat by the fire, help here and there a stitch : 
But there ich was powpt^ indeede. 
Diccon. Why, Hodge ? 

Hodge. Bootes not, man, to tell. 

Cham so drest amongst a sorte of fooles, chad better be in hell. 
My gammer (cham ashamed to say), by God, served me not 
weele. 
Diccon. How so, Hodge ? 

Hodge. Has she not gone, trowest now, and lost her neele ? 

1 Ed. 1575 Godg^. 2 Ed. I'^'je, dogde. ^ deceived. 



220 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. n 

Diccon, Her eele, Hodge ? Who fysht of late ? That was a dainty 
dysh ! 41 

Hodge, Tush, tush, her neele, her neele, her neele, man ! tis nei- 
ther flesh nor fysh ; 
A lytle thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any syller, 
Small, longe, sharpe at the poynt, and straight as any pyller. 
Diccon. I know not what a devil thou meenst, thou bringst me more 
in doubt. 45 

Hodge. Knowst not with what Tom Tailers man sits broching 
throughe a clout ? 
A neele, a neele, a neele ! my gammer's neele is gone. 
Diccon. Her neele, Hodge ? now I smel thee ! that was a chaunce 
alone ! 
By the masse, thou hast a shamefull losse, and it wer but for 
thy breches. 
Hodge. Gogs soule, man, chould give a crown chad it but three 
stitches. 50 

Diccon. How sayest thou, Hodge ? What shuld he have, again thy 

nedle got ? 
Hodge. Bem vathers soule, and chad it, chould give him a new grot. 
Diccon. Canst thou keep counsaile in this case ? 
Hodge. Else chwold my tonge^ were out. 

Diccon. Do than but then by my advise, and I will fetch it without 

doubt. 
Hodge. Chyll runne, chyll ryde, chyll dygge, chyl delve, chill toyle, 
chill trudge, shalt see; 55 

Chill hold, chil drawe, chil pull, chill pynche, chill kneele on 

my bare knee ; 
Chill scrape, chill scratche, chill syfte, chill seeke, chill bowe, 

chill bende, chill sweate. 
Chill stoop, chil stur, chil cap, chil knele, chil crepe on hands 

and feete ; 
Chill be thy bondman, Diccon, ich sweare by sunne and moone. 
And channot sumwhat to stop this gap, cham utterly undone ! 60 

(^Pointing behind to his tome breeches.^ 

1 Ed. 1575 thonge. 



sc. i] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 221 

Diccon. Why, is there any special cause thou takest hereat such 



sorow r 
Hodge. Kirstian Clack, Tom Simpsons maid, by the masse, coms 
hether to morow, 

Cham not able to say, betweene us what may hap; 

She smyled on me the last Sunday, when ich put of my cap. 
Diccon. Well, Hodge, this is a matter of weight, and must be kept 
close, 65 

It might els turne to both our costes, as the world now gose. 

Shalt sware to be no blab, Hodge ! 
Hodge. Chyll, Diccon. 

Diccon. Then go to, 

Lay thine hand here ; say after me as thou shal here me do. 

Haste no booke ? 
Hodge. Cha no booke, I ! 

Diccon. Then needes must force us both, 

Upon my breech to lay thine hand, and there to take thine 
othc. 
Hodge. I, Hodge, breechelesse 71 

Sweare to Diccon, rechelesse. 

By the crosse that I shall kysse, 

To keep his counsaile close, 

And alwayes me to dispose 75 

To worke that his pleasure is. {Here he kysseth Diccons breech.) 
Diccon. Now, Hodge, see thou take heede. 

And do as I thee byd ; 

For so I judge it meete ; 

This nedle again to win, 80 

There is no shift therin 

But conjure up a spreete. 
Hodge. What, the great devill, Diccon, I saye ? 
Diccon. Yea, in good faith, that is the waye. 

Fet with some prety charme. 85 

Hodge. Soft, Diccon, be not to hasty yet, 

By the masse, for ich begyn to sweat ! 

Cham afrayde of some 1 harme. 

1 Ed. 1575 syme. 



222 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. h 

Diccon. Come hether, then, and sturre the nat 

One inche out of this cyrcle plat, 90 

But stande as I thee teache. 
Hodge. And shall ich be here safe from theyr clawes ? 
Diccon. The mayster devill with his longe pawes 

Here to the can not reache. 

Now will I settle me to this geare. 95 

Hodge. I saye, Diccon, heare me, heare ! 

Go softely to thys matter ! 
Diccon. What devyll, man ? art afraide of nought ? 
Hodge. Canst not tarrye a lytle thought 

Tyll ich make a curtesie of water ? 1 00 

Diccon. Stand still to it ; why shuldest thou feare hym ? 
Hodge. Gogs sydes, Diccon, me thinke ich heare him ! 

And tarrye, chal mare all ! 
Diccon. The matter is no worse than I tolde it. 
Hodge. By the masse, cham able no longer to holde it ! 105 

To bad ! iche must beray the hall ! 
Diccon. Stand to it, Hodge ! sture not, you horson ! 

What devyll, be thine ars strynges brusten ? 
Thyselfe a while but staye. 

The devill (I smell hym) will be here anone. iio 

Hodge. Hold him fast, Diccon, cham gone ! cham gone ! 
Chyll not be at that fraye ! 



The ii Acte. The ii Sceane. 

Diccon. Chat. 

Diccon. Fy, shytten knave, and out upon thee ! 
Above all other loutes, fye on thee ! 
Is not here a clenly prancke ? 
But thy matter was no better, 
Nor thy presence here no sweter, 
To flye I can the thanke.^ 

1 give thee thanks. 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 223 

Here is a matter worthy glosynge, 

Of Gammer Gurton nedle losynge, 

And a foule peece of warke ! 

A man I thyncke myght make a playe, 10 

And nede no worde to this they saye. 

Being but halfe a clarke. 

Softe, let me alone ! I will take the charge 

This matter further to enlarge 

Within a tyme shorte. 15 

If ye will marke my toyes, and note, 

I will geve ye leave to cut my throte 

If I make not good sporte. 

Dame Chat, I say, where be ye ? within ? 
Chat. Who have we there maketh such a din ? 20 

■ Diccon. Here is a good fellow, maketh no great daunger. 
Chat. What, Diccon ? Come nere, ye be no straunger. 

We be fast set at trumpe, man, hard by the fyre ; 

Thou shalt set on the king, if thou come a little nyer. 
Diccon. Nay, nay, there is no tarying; I must be gone againe. 25 

But first for you in councel I have a word or twain. 
Chat. Come hether, Dol ! Dol, sit downe and play this game. 

And as thou sawest me do, see thou do even the same. 

There is five trumps beside the queene, the hindmost thou 
shalt finde her. 

Take hede of Sim Glovers wife, she hath an eie behind 
her ! 30 

Now, Diccon, say your will. 
Diccon. Nay, softe a little yet ; 

I wold not tel it my sister, the matter is so great. 

There I wil have you sweare by our dere Lady of Bullaine, 

Saint Dunstone, and Saint Donnyke, with the three kings of 
Kullaine, 

That ye shal keepe it secret. 
Chat. Gogs bread! that will I doo ! 35 

As secret as mine owne thought, by God and the devil two I 



224 Gammer Gurtons Nedh ' [act. n 

Diccon. Here is Gammer Gurton, your neighbour, a sad and hevy 
wight : 
Her goodly faire red cock at home was stole this last night. 
Chat. Gogs soul ! her cock with the yelow legs, that nightly crowed 

so just ? 
Diccon. That cock is stollen. 

Chat. What, was he fet out of the hens ruste ? 40 

Diccon. I can not tel where the devil he was kept, under key or 
locke ; 
But Tib hath tykled in Gammers eare, that you shoulde steale 
the cocke. 
Chat. Have I, stronge hoore ? by bread and sake ! — 
Diccon. What, softe, I say, be styl ! 

Say not one word for all this geare. 

Chat. By the masse, that I wyl ! 

I wil have the yong hore by the head, & the old trot by the 

throte. 45 

Diccon. Not one word. Dame Chat, I say ; not one word, for my 

cote ! 
Chat. Shall such a begars brawle ^ as that, thinkest thou, make me 
a theefe ? 
The pocks light on her hores sydes, a pestlence and a mis- 

cheefe ! 
Come out, thou hungry nedy bytche ! O that my nails be short ! 
Diccon. Gogs bred, woman, hold your peace ! this gere wil els 
passe sport ! 50 

I wold not for an hundred pound this mater shuld be knowen, 
That I am auctour of this tale, or have abrode it blowen ! 
Did ye not sweare ye wold be ruled, before the tale I tolde ? 
I said ye must all secret keepe, and ye said sure ye wolde. 
Chat. Wolde you suffer, your selfe, Diccon, such a sort to revile 

yo". 55 

With slaunderous words to blot your name, and so to defile vou ? 

Diccon. No, Goodwife Chat, I wold be loth such drabs shulde blot 

my name ; 
But yet ye must so order all that Diccon beare no blame. 

1 offspring, brat. 



I 



sc. Ill] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 225 

Chat, Go to, then, what is your rede ? say on your minde, ye shall 
mee rule herein. 

Diccon. Godamercye to Dame Chat ! In faith thou must the gere 
begin. 60 

It is twenty pound to a goose turd, my gammer will not tary, 
But hether ward she comes as fast as her legs can her cary, 
To brawle with you about her cocke ; for wel I hard Tib say 
The Cocke was rosted in your house to brea [k] fast yesterday ; 
And when ye had the carcas eaten, the fethers ye out flunge, 65 
And Doll, your maid, the legs she hid a foote depe in the dunge. 

Chat. Oh gracyous God ! my harte it ^ burstes ! 

Diccon, Well, rule your selfe a space ; 

And Gammer Gurton when she commeth anon into thys place, 
Then to the queane, lets see, tell her your mynd and spare 

not. 
So shall Diccon blamelesse bee ; and then, go to, I care not ! 70 

Chat. Then, hoore, beware her throte ! I can abide no longer. 
In faith, old witch, it shalbe scene which of us two be stronger ! 
And, Diccon, but at your request, I wold not stay one howre. 

Diccon. Well, keepe it till she be here, and then out let it powre ! 
In the meane while get you in, and make no wordes of this. 75 
More of this matter within this howre to here you shall not 

misse. 
Because I knew you are niy freind, hide it I cold not, doubtl'es. 
Ye know your harm, see ye be wise about your owne busines ! 
So fare ye well.^ 

Chat. Nay, soft, Diccon, and drynke ! What, Doll, I say ! 

Bringe here a cup of the best ale; lets see, come quicly 

a waye ! 80 

The ii Acte. The iii Sceane. c 

Hodge. Diccon. 

Diccon. Ye see, masters, that one end tapt of this my short devise ! 
Now must we broche thot [h] er to, before the smoke- arise ; 

1 Ed. 1575 'is'; the reading adopted seems better than is burste. 2 gj j^y^ ^///^ 



226 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. h 

And by tne time they have a while run, I trust ye need not 

crave it. 
But loke, what lieth in both their harts, ye ar like, sure, to 
have it. 
Hodge. Yea, Gogs soule, art alive yet ? What, Diccon, dare ich 
come ? 5 

Diccon. A man is wel hied to trust to theej I wil say nothing but 
mum; 
But and ye come any nearer, I pray you see all be sweete ! 
Hodge. Tush, man, is Gammers neele found ? that chould gladly 

weete. 

Diccon. She may thanke thee it is not found, for if thou had kept 

thy standing. 

The devil he wold have fet it out, even, Hodge, at thy com- 

maunding. lO 

Hodge. Gogs hart, and cold he tel nothing wher the neele might be 

found ? 

Diccon. Ye folysh dolt, ye were to seek, ear we had got our ground ; 

Therefore his tale so doubtfuU was that I cold not perceive it. 

Hodge. Then ich se wel somthing was said, chope ^ one day yet to 

have it. 

But Diccon, Diccon, did not the devill cry " ho, ho, ho " ? 15 

Diccon. If thou hadst taryed where thou stoodst, thou woldest 

have said so ! 
Hodge. Durst swere of a boke, ch'ard him rore, streight after ich 
was gon. 
But tel me, Diccon, what said the knave ? let me here it 
anon. 
Diccon. The horson talked to mee, I know not well of what. 

One whyle his tonge it ran and paltered of a cat, 20 

Another whyle he stamered styll uppon a Rat ; 
Last of all, there was nothing but every word, Chat, Chat ; 
But this I well perceyved before I wolde him rid, 
Betweene Chat, and the Rat, and the cat, the nedle is hyd. 
Now wether Gyb, our cat, have eate it in her mawe, 25 

Or Doctor Rat, our curat, have found it in the straw, 

^ I hope. 



sc. iiii] (srammer Gurtons Nedle 227 

Or this Dame Chat, your neighbour, have stollen it, God hee 

knoweth ! 
But by the morow at this time, we shal learn how the matter 

goeth. 
Hodge, Canst not learn tonight, man ? seest not what is here ? 

{Pointing behind to his tome breeches. ) 

Diccon. Tys not possyble to make it sooner appere. 30 

Hodge. Alas, Diccon, then chave no shyft, but — least ich tary to 
longe — 
Hye me to Sym Glovers shop, theare to seeke for a thonge, 
Therwith this breech to tatche and tye as ich may. 
Diccon. To morow, Hodg, if we chaunce to meete, shalt see what 
I will say. 



The il Acte. The iiii Sceane. 

Diccon. Gammer. 

Diccon. Now this gere must forward goe, for here my gammer com- 
meth. 
Be still a while and say nothing ; make here a little romth.^ 
Gammer. Good Lord, shall never be my lucke my neele agayne to 
spye ? 
Alas, the whyle ! tys past my helpe, where tis still it must lye ! 
Diccon. Now, Jesus ! Gammer Gurton, what driveth you to this 
sadnes ? 5 

I feare me, by my conscience, you will sure fall to madnes. 
Gammer. Who is that ? What, Diccon ? cham lost, man ! fye, fye ! 
Diccon. Mary, fy on them that be worthy ! but what shuld be your 

troble ? 

Gammer. Alas ! the more ich thinke on it, my sorow it waxeth doble. 

My goodly tossing ^ sporyars ^ neele chave lost ich wot not 

where. 10 

Diccon. Your neele ? whan ? 

Gammer. My neele, alas ! ich myght full ill it spare, 

1 room. 2 first-rate. ^ spurrier's, harness-maker's. 



228 Gammer Gurtons Nedh [act. n 

As God him selfe he knoweth, nere one besyde chave. 
Diccon. If this be all, good Gammer, I warrant you all is save. 
Gammer. Why, know you any tydings which way my neele is 

gone ? 
Diccon, Yea, that I do doubtlesse, as ye shall here anone. 15 

A see a thing this matter toucheth, within these twenty howres, 
Even at this gate, before my face, by a neyghbour of yours. 
She stooped me downe, and up she toke a nedle or a pyn. 
I durst be sworne it was even yours, by all my mothers kyn. 
Gammer. It was my neele, Diccon, ich wot ; for here, even by this 

poste, 20 

Ich sat, what time as ich up starte, and so my neele it loste. 
Who was it, leive ^ son ? speke, ich pray the, and quickly tell 

me that ! 
Diccon. A suttle queane as any in thys towne, your neyghboure 

here. Dame Chat. 
Gammer. Dame Chat, Diccon ? Let me be gone, chil thyther in 

post haste. 
Diccon. Take my councell yet or ye go, for feare ye walke in 

wast. 25 

It is a murrion crafty drab, and froward to be pleased ; 
And ye take not the better way, our nedle yet ye lose ^ it : 
For when she tooke it up, even here before your doores, 
" What, soft. Dame Chat " (quoth I), " that same is none of 

yours." 
" Avant," quoth she, " syr knave ! what pratest thou of that I 

fynd ? 30 

I wold thou hast kist me I wot whear ; " she ment, I know, 

behind ; 
And home she went as brag as it had ben a bodelouce. 
And I after, as bold as it had ben the goodman of the house. 
But there and ye had hard her, how she began to scolde ! 
The tonge it went on patins, by hym that Judas solde ! 35 

Ech other worde I was a knave, and you a hore of hores. 
Because I spake in your behalfe, and sayde the neele was 

yours. 

1 dear. 2 Read ' lese,' for the rime. 



sc. v] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 229 

Gammer, Gogs bread, and thinks that that callet thus to kepe my 

neele me fro ? 
D'lccon. Let her alone, and she minds non other but even to dresse 

you so. 
Gammer. By the masse, chil rather spend the cote that is on my 

backe ! 40 

Thinks the false quean by such a slygh[t] that chill my neele 

lacke ? 
Diccon. Slepe ^ not you [r] gere, I counsell you, but of this take 

good hede : 
Let not be knowen I told you of it, how well soever ye 

spede. 
Gammer, Chil in, Diccon, a cleene aperne to take and set before 

me; 
And ich may my neele once see, chil, sure, remember the ! 45 



The ii Acte. The v Sceane. 

Diccon. 

Diccon. Here will the sporte begin ; if these two once may meete. 
Their chere, durst lay money, will prove scarsly sweete. 
My gammer, sure, entends to be uppon her bones 
With staves, or with clubs, or els with coble stones. 
Dame Chat, on the other syde, if she be far behynde 5 

I am right far deceived ; she is geven to it of kynde.^ 
He that may tarry by it awhyle, and that but shorte, 
I warrant hym, trust to it, he shall see all the sporte. 
Into the towne will I, my frendes to vysit there. 
And hether straight againe to see thend of this gere. 10 

In the meane time, felowes, pype upp ; your fiddles, I sale, 

take them. 
And let your freyndes here such mirth as ye can make them. 

1 slip, neglect. Perhaps we should read ' yon ' for ' you[r].' 

2 by nature. 



230 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. u 

The iii. Acte. The i Sceane. 

Hodge. 

Hodge, Sym Glover, yet gramercy ! cham meetlye well sped now, 
Thart even as good a felow as ever kyste a cowe ! 
Here is a thonge ^ in dede, by the masse, though ich speake it -, 
Tom Tankards great bald curtal, I thinke, could not breake it ! 
And when he spyed my neede to be so straight and hard, Cii 
Hays lent me here his naull,^ to set the gyb forward,^ 6 

As for my gammers neele, the flyenge feynd go weete ! 
Chill not now go to the doore againe with it to meete. 
Chould make shyfte good inough and chad a candels ende ; 
The cheefe hole in my breeche with these two chil amende. 10 

The iii. Acte. The ii Sceane. 
Gammer. Hodge. 

Gammer. Now Hodge, mayst nowe be glade, cha newes to tell thee ; 
Ich knowe who hais my neele ; ich trust soone shalt it see. 

Hodge. The devyll thou does ! hast hard. Gammer, in deede, or 
doest but jest ? 

Gammer. Tys as true as Steele, Hodge. 

Hodge. . Why, knowest well where dydst leese it ? 

Gammer. Ich know who found it, and tooke it up ! shalt see or it 
be longe. 5 

Hodge. Gods mother dere ! if that be true, farwel both naule an 
thong ! 
But who hais it. Gammer, say on ; chould faine here it dis- 
closed. 

Gammer. That false fixen, that same Dame Chat, that counts her 
selfe so honest. 

1 Ed. 1575 has thynge. * awl. 

3 Apparently a proverbial phrase, meaning * to expedite matters. ' 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 231 

Hodge. Who tolde you so ? 

Gammer. That same did Diccon the bedlam, which saw it done. 

Hodge. Diccon? it is a vengeable knave, Gammer, tis a bonable^ 

horson, lo 

Can do mo things then that, els cham deceyved evill : 

By the masse, ich saw him of late cal up a great blacke 

devill ! 
O, the knave cryed " ho, ho ! " he roared and he thundred, 
And yead bene here, cham sure yould murrenly ha wondred. 
Gammer. Was not thou afraide, Hodge to see him in this 
place ? 15 

Hodge, No, and chad come to me, chould have laid him on the 
face, 
Chould have, promised him ! 
Gammer. But, Hodge, had he no homes to pushe ? 

Hodge. As long as your two armes. Saw ye never Fryer Rushe^ 
Painted on a cloth, with a side long cowes tayle. 
And crooked cloven feete, and many a hoked nayle ? 20 

For al the world, if I shuld judg, chould recken him his 

brother. 
Loke, even what face Frier Rush had, the devil had such 
another. 
Gammer. Now Jesus mercy, Hodg ! did Diccon in him bring ? 
Hodge. Nay Gammer, here me speke, chil tel you a greater thing; 
The devil (when Diccon had him, ich hard him wondrous 
weel) 25 

Sayd plainly here before us, that Dame Chat had your 
neele. 
G\am\mer. Then let us go, and aske her wherfore she minds to 
kepe it; 
Seing we know so much, tware a madnes now to slepe it. 
Hodge. Go to her. Gammer ; see ye not where she stands in her 
doores ? 
Byd her geve you the neele, tys none of hers but yours. 30 

1 abominable. 

2 * Friar Rush,' the chief personage in a popular story translated from the German, which 
relates the adventures of a devil in the disguise of a friar. 



232 Gammer Gurtons Nedle fAcr. m 

The iii. Acte. The iii. Sceane. 

Gammer. Chat. Hodge. 

Gammer. Dame Chat, cholde praye the fair, let me have that is 
mine ! 
Chil not this twenty yeres take one fart that is thyne ; 
Therefore give me mine owne, and let me live besyde the. 
Chat. Why art thou crept from home hether, to mine own doores 
to chide me ? 
Hence, doting drab, avaunt, or I shall set the further! 5 

Intends thou and that knave mee in my house to murther ? 
Gatn?ner. Tush, gape not so on ^ me, woman ! shalt not yet eate 
mee ! 
Nor all the frends thou hast in this shall not intreate mee ! 
Mine owne goods I will have, and aske the no^ beleve,^ 
What, woman ! pore folks must have right, though the thing 
you aggreve. 10 

Chat. Give thee thy right, and hang the up, with al thy baggers 
broode ! 
What, wilt thou make me a theefe, and say I stole thy good ? 
Gammer. Chil say nothing, ich warrant thee, but that ich can prove 
it well. 
Thou fet my good even from my doore, cham able this to tel ! 
Chat. Dyd I, olde witche, steale oft* was thine? how should that 
thing be knowen ? 15 

Gammer. Ich can no tel ; but up thou tokest it as though it had 

ben thine owne. 
Chat. Mary, fy on thee, thou old gyb, with al my very hart ! 
Gammer. Nay, fy on thee, thou rampe, thou ryg, with al that take 

thy parte ! 
Chat. A vengeance on those lips that laieth such things to my 

charge ! 
Gammer. A vengeance on those callats hips, whose conscience is 
so large ! 20 

1 Ed. 1575 no. 2 Ed. 1575 OH. 8 leave, permission. * aught. 



sc. Ill] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 233 - 

Chat. Come out, hogge ! 

Gammer, Come out, hogge, and let have me right ! 

Chat. Thou arrant witche ! 

Gammer. Thou bawdie bitche, chil make thee cursse this night ! 

Chat. A bag and a wallet ! 

Gammer. A carte for a callet ! 

Chat. Why, wenest thou thus to prevaile ? 

I hold thee a grote, I shall patche thy coate ! c iii 

Gammer, Thou warte as good kysse my tayle ! 

Thou slut, thou kut, thou rakes, thou jakes ! will not shame 
make the hide [the] ? 25 

Chat, Thou skald, thou bald, thou rotten, thou glotton ! I will no 
longer chyd the. 
But I will teache the to kepe home. 
Gammer. Wylt thou, drunken beaste ? 

Hodge. Sticke to her. Gammer ! take her by the head, chil warrant 
you thys feast ! 
Smyte, I saye. Gammer ! Byte, I say, Gammer ! I trow ye 

wyll be keene ! 

Where be your nayls ? claw her by the jawes, pull me out 

bothe her eyen. 30 

Gogs bones. Gammer, holde up your head ! 

Chat. I trow, drab, I shall dresse thee. 

Tary, thou knave, I hold the a grote I shall make these hands 

blesse thee ! 
Take thou this, old hore, for amends, and lerne thy tonge well 

to tame. 

And say thou met at this bickering, not thy fellow but thy dame ! 

Hodge. Where is the strong stued hore ? chil geare a hores 

marke ! 35 

Stand out ones way, that ich kyll none in the darke ! 

Up, Gammer, and ye be aly ve ! chil feygh [t] now for us bothe. 

Come no nere me, thou scalde callet ! to kyll the ich wer loth. 

Chat, Art here agayne, thou hoddy peke ? what, Doll ! bryng me 

out my spitte. 
Hodge, Chill broche thee wyth this, bim father soule, chyll conjure 
that foule sprete ! 40 



2 34 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. m 

Let dore stand, Cock ! why corns, in deede ? kepe dore, thou 
horson boy ! 
Chat. Stand to it, thou dastard, for thine eares, ise teche the, a slut- 
tish toye ! 
Hodge, Gogs woundes, hore, chil make the avaunte! take heede, 

Cocke, pull in the latche ! 
Chat. I faith, sir Loose-breche, had ye taried, ye shold have found 

your match ! 
Ga?nmer. Now ware thy throte, losell, thouse paye ^ for al ! 
Hodge. Well said. Gammer, by my soule. 45 

Hoyse her, souse her, bounce her, trounce her, pull out her 
throte boule ! 
Chat. Comst behynd me, thou withered witch ? and I get once on 
foote 
Thouse pay for all, thou old tarlether ! ile teach the what longs 

to it! 
Take the this to make up thy mouth, til time thou come by 
more ! 
Hodge. Up, Gammer, stande on your feete; where is the olde 
hore ? 50 

Faith, woulde chad her by the face, choulde cracke her callet 
crowne ! 
Gammer. A Hodg, Hodg, where was thy help, when fixen had me 

downe ? 
Hodge. By the masse, Gammer, but for my stafFe Chat had gone 
nye to spyl you ! 
Ich think the harlot had not cared, and chad not com, to kill 

you. 
But shall we loose our neele thus ? 
Gammer. No Hodge chwarde ^ lothe doo soo, 55 

Thinkest thou chill take that at her hand ? no, Hodg, ich tell 
the no ! 
Hodge. Chold yet this fray wer wel take up, and our neele at 
home. 
Twill be my chaunce else some to kil, wher ever it be or 
whome ! 

1 Ed. 1575 pray. ^ Probably a misprint for * chware,' I would be. 



I 



sc. Ill] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 235 

Gammer. We have a parson, Hodge, thou knoes, a man estemed wise, 
Mast Doctor Rat ; chil for hym send, and let me here his 
advise. 60 

He will her shrive for all this gere, and geve her penaunce strait ; 
Wese^ have our neele, els Dame Chat comes nere within 
heaven gate. 
Hodge, Ye, mary, Gammer, that ich think best ; wyll you now for 
him send ? 
The sooner Doctor Rat be here, the soner wese ha an ende, 
And here. Gammer ! Dyccons devill, as iche remember well, 65 
Of cat, and Chat, and Doctor Rat, a felloneus tale dyd tell. 
Chold you forty pound, that is the way your neele to get againe. 
Gammer. Chil ha him strait ! Call out the boy, wese make him 

take the payn. 
Hodge. What, Co [c] ke, I saye ! come out ! What devill ! canst 

not here ? 
Cocke. How now, Hodg ? how does Gammer, is yet the wether 
cleare ? 70 

What wold chave 2 me to do ? 
Gammer. Come hether, Cocke, anon ! 

Hence swythe ^ to Doctor Rat, hye the that thou were gone. 
And pray hym come speke with me, cham not well at ease. 
Shalt have him at his chamber, or els at Mother Bees ; 
Els seeke him at Hob Fylchers shop, for as charde it re- 
ported, 75 
There is the best ale in al the towne, and now is most resorted. 
Cocke. And shall ich brynge hym with me. Gammer ? 
Gammer. Yea, by and by, good Cocke. 
Cocke. Shalt see that shal be here anone, els let me have on the 

docke.* 
Hodge. Now, Gammer, shall we two go in, and tary for hys com- 
mynge ? 
What devill, woman ! plucke up your hart, and leve of al this 
glomming.^ 80 

1 we shall. 

2 Cha've is either a blunder of the author's in the use of dialect, or a misprint for * thave ' = 
thou have. 3 quickly. * tail, backside. 

* sulking (compare ^/mw, and R. R. Z)., I. i. 66). 



236 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. m 

Though she were stronger at the first, as ich thinke ye did find 

her, 
Yet there ye drest the dronken sow, what time ye cam behind 

her. 
Gammer. Nay, nay, cham sure she lost not all, for, set thend to 

the beginning. 
And ich doubt not but she will make small host of her winning. 



The ill Acte. The iiii Sceane. 

Tyb. Hodge. Gammer. Cocke. 

Tyh, Se, Gammer, Gammer, Gib, our cat, cham afraid what she 
ayleth ; 
She standes me gasping behind the doore, as though her winde 

her faileth : 
Now let ich doubt what Gib shuld mean, that now she doth 
so dote. 
Hodge, Hold hether ! I chould twenty pound, your neele is in her 
throte. 
Grope her, ich say, me thinkes ich feele it ; does not pricke 
your hand ? 5 

Gammer. Ich can feele nothing. 

Hodge. No, ich know thars not within this land 

A muryner cat then Gyb is, betwixt the Tems and Tyne ; 
Shase as much wyt in her head almost as chave in mine ! 
Tyh. Faith, shase eaten some thing, that will not easily downe ; 
Whether she gat it at home, or abrode in the towne 10 

Ich can not tell. 
Gammer. Alas ich feare it be some croked pyn ! 

And then farewell Gyb ! she is undone, and lost al save the 
skyn ! 
Hodge. Tys ^ your neele, woman, I say ! Gogs soule ! geve me a 
knyfe. 
And chil have it out 2 of her mawe, or els chal lose my lyfe ! 

1 Ed. 1575 Tyb. 2 yA. 1575 bauet not i. 



sc. iiii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 237 

Gammer, What ! nay, Hodg, fy ! Kil not our cat, tis al the cats 

we ha now. i^ 

Hodge. By the masse, Dame Chat hays me so moved,i iche care 

not what I kyll, ma 2 God a vowe ! 

Go to, then, Tyb, to this geare ! holde up har tayle and take 

her! 
Chil see what devil is in her guts ! chil take the paines to rake 
her! 
Gammer, Rake a cat, Hodge ! what woldst thou do ? 
Hodge, What, thinckst that cham not able ? 

Did not Tom Tankard rake his curtal toore^ day standing in 
the stable ? 20 

Gammer, Soft ! be content, lets here what newes Cocke bringeth 

from Maist Rat. 
Cocke, Gammer, chave ben ther as you bad, you wot wel about 
what. 
Twill not be long before he come, ich durst sweare of a 

booke. 
He byds you see ye be at home, and there for him to 
looke. 
Gammer, Where didst thou find him, boy ? was he not wher I told 
thee ? 25 

Cocke. Yes, yes, even at Hob Filchers house, by him that bought 
and solde me ! 
A cup of ale had in his hand, and a crab lay in the fyer ; 
Chad much a do to go and come, al was so ful of myer. 
And, Gammer, one thing I can tel. Hob Filchers naule was 

loste. 
And Doctor Rat found it againe, hard beside the doore 
poste. 30 

I chould a penny can say something your neele againe to 
set 
Gammer, Cham glad to heare so much, Cocke, then trust he wil 
not let 
To helpe us herein best he can ; therfore tyl time he come 
Let us go in ; if there be ought to get thou shalt have some, 

1 Ed. 1575 moned. 2 ^I) make. 8 t'other, the other. 



238 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. mi 

The iiii Acte. The i Sceane.^ d 

Doctor Rat. Gammer Gurton. 

Z). Rat. A man were better twenty times be a bandog and barke, 
Then here among such a sort be parish priest or clarke, 
Where he shall never be at rest one pissing while a day, 
But he must trudge about the towne, this way and that way ; 
Here to a drab, there to a theefe, his shoes to teare and rent, 5 
And that which is worst of al, at every knaves commaunde- 

ment ! 
I had not sit the space to drinke two pots of ale. 
But Gammer Gurtons sory boy was straite way at my taile. 
And she was sicke, and I must come, to do I wot not what ! 
If once her fingers end but ake, trudge ! call for Doctor Rat ! 10 
And when I come not at their call, I only therby loose; 
For I am sure to lacke therfore a tythe pyg or a goose. 
I warrant you, when truth is knowen, and told they have their 

tale. 
The matter where about I come is not worth a halfpeny worth 

of ale ; 
Yet must I talke so sage and smothe, as though I were a 
glosier 15 

Els, or the yere come at an end, I shal be sure the loser. 
What worke ye. Gammer Gurton ? hoow ? here is your frend 
M[ast] Rat. 
Gammer. A ! good M [ast] Doctor ! cha trobled, cha trobled you, 

chwot wel that ! 
D. Rat. How do ye, woman ? be ye lustie, or be ye not well at ease ? 
Gammer. By gys, Master, cham not sick, but yet chave a disease.^ 20 

Chad a foule turne now of late, chill tell it you, by gigs ! 
D. Rat, Hath your browne cow cast hir calfe, or your sandy sowe 

her pigs ? 
Gammer. No, but chad ben as good they had as this, ich wot weel. 
D. Rat. What is the matter ? 
Gammer, Alas, alas ! cha lost my good neele I 

1 Ed. 1575 The ii Acte. The iiii Sceane. 2 anxiety. 



sc. II] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 239 

My neele, 1 say, and wot ye what, a drab came by and spied 
it, 25 

And when I asked hir for the same, the filth flatly denied it. 
D. Rat. What was she that ? 

Gammer. A dame, ich warrant you ! She be- 

gan to scold and brawle — 
Alas, alas ! Come hether, Hodge ! this wr [e] tche can tell you 
all. 

The iiii. Acte. The ii Sceane.^ 

Hodge. Doctor Rat. Gammer. Diccon. Chat. 

Hodge. God mo row, GafFer Vicar. 

^' ^^^' Come on, fellow, let us heare ! 

Thy dame hath sayd to me, thou knowest of all this geare ; 

Lets see what thou canst saie. 
^°^i'' Bym fay, sir, that ye shall. 

What matter so ever there was done, ich can tell your maship 
[all] : ^ P 

My Gammer Gurton heare, see now, 5 

sat her downe at this doore, see now ; 
And, as she began to stirre her, see now, 

her neele fell to the floore, see now ; 
And while her staffe shee tooke, see now, 

at Gyb her cat to flynge, see now, 10 

Her neele was lost in the floore, see now. 

Is not this a wondrous thing, see now .? 
Then came the queane Dame Chat, see now, 

to aske for hir blacke cup, see now : 
And even here at this gate, see now, 15 

she tooke that neele up, see now : 
My Gammer then she yeede,^ see now, 

her neele againe to bring, see now, 

1 In Colwell's edition this scene extends to the end of the act. There should probably be a 
division after line 63, and again after line 105 (as in Professor Manly's edition), but we hav 
retained the original arrangement. 2 went. 



240 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. im 

And was caught by the head, see now. 

Is not this a wondrous thing, see now ? 20 

She tare my Gammers cote, see now, 

and scratched hir by the face, see now ; 
Chad thought shad stopt hir throte, see now. 

Is not this a wondrous case, see now ? 
When ich saw this, ich was wrothe,i see now, 25 

and start betwene them twaine, see now ; 
Els ich durst take a booke othe, see now, 

my gammer had bene slaine, see now. 

Gammer. This is even the whole matter, as Hodge has plainly tolde \ 
And chould faine be quiet for my part, that chould. 30 

But help us, good Master, beseech ye that ye doo : 
Els shall we both be beaten and lose our neele too. 
D. Rat. What wold ye have me to doo ? tel me, that I were gone j 
I will do the best that I can, to set you both at one. 
But be ye sure Dame Chat hath this your neele founde ? 35 
Gammer. Here comes the man that see hir take it up of the ground. 
Aske him your selfe, Master Rat, if ye beleve not me : 
And help me to my neele, for Gods sake and Saint Charitie ! 
Z). Rat. Come nere, Diccon, and let us heare what thou can 
expresse. 
Wilt thou be sworne thou seest Dame Chat this womans 
neele have ? 40 

Diccon. Nay, by S. Benit, wil I not, then might ye thinke me rave ! 
Gammer. Why, didst not thou tel me so even here? canst thou 

for shame deny it ? 
Diccon. I, mary. Gammer ; but I said I would not abide by it. 
D. Rat. Will you say a thing, and not sticke to it to trie it? 
Diccon. " Stick to it," quoth you. Master Rat ? mary, sir, I defy 
it ! 45 

Nay, there is many an honest man, when he suche blastes 

hath blowne 
In his freindes eares, he woulde be loth the same by him were 
knowne. 

1 Ed. 1575, Ivor the. 



241 



sc. II] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 

If such a toy be used oft among the honestie. 

It may beseme a simple man of your and my degree. 

D, Rat. Then we be never the nearer, for all that you can tell ! 50 

Diccon, Yea, mary, sir, if ye will do by mine advise and counsaile. 
If Mother Chat se al us here, she knoweth how the matter 

goes; 
Therfore I red you three go hence, and within keepe close. 
And I will into Dame Chats house, and so the matter use. 
That ori you cold go twise to church I warant you here 
news. -^ 

She shall look wel about hir, but, I durst lay a pledge. 
Ye shal of Gammers neele have shortly better knowledge. 

Gammer, Now, gentle Diccon, do so, and, good sir, let us trudge. 

D. Rat. By the masse, I may not tarry so long to be your judge. 

Diccon. Tys but a little while, man ; what ! take so much paine ! 60 
If I here no newes of it, I wil come sooner againe. 

Hodge. Tary so much, good Master Doctor, of your gentlenes ! 

D. Rat. Then let us hie us inward, and, Diccon, speede thy busines. 

Diccon?' Now, sirs, do you no more, but kepe my counsaile juste. 
And Doctor Rat shall thus catch some good, I trust. 65 

But Mother Chat, my gossop, talke first with-all I must : 
For she must be chiefe captaine to lay the Rat in the dust. 
God deven, dame Chat, in faith, and wel met in this place ! 

Chat. God deven, my friend Diccon ; whether walke ye this pace ? 

Diccon. By my truth, even to you, to learne how the world goeth. 70 
Hard ye no more of the other matter ? say me, now, by your 
troth ! 

Chat. O yes, Diccon, here the old hoore, and Hodge, that great 
knave — 
But, in faith, I would thou hadst sene, — O Lord, I drest 

them brave ! 
She bare me two or three souses behind in the nape of the 

necke. 
Till I made hrr olde wesen to answere againe, " kecke ! " 75 
And Hodge, that dirty dastard, that at hir elbow standes, — 
If one pair of legs had not bene worth two paire of hands, 

1 ere, before. 2 m. begins a new scene here ; H. says it should begin at line 68. 



242 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. mi 

He had had his bearde shaven if my nayles wold have served, Dij 
And not without a cause, for the knave it well deserved. 
Diccon. By the masse, I can the thank, wench, thou didst so wel 
acquite the ! 80 

Chat. And thadst seene him, Diccon, it wold have made the beshite 
the 
For laughter. The horsen dolt at last caught up a club, 
As though he would have slaine the master devil Belsabub. 
But I set him soone inwarde. 
Diccon. O Lorde, there is the thing 

That Hodge is so offended ! that makes him start and flyng ! 85 
Chat. Why ? makes the knave any moyling, as ye have seen or 

hard ? 
Diccon. Even now I sawe him last, like a mad man he farde. 

And sware by heven and hell he would awreake his sorowe. 
And leve you never a hen on live, by eight of the clock to 

morow ; 
Therfore marke what I say, and my wordes see that ye 
trust. 90 

Your hens be as good as dead, if ye leave them on the ruste. 
Chat. The knave dare as well go hang himself, as go upon my 

ground. 
Diccon. Wel, yet take hede I say, I must tel you my tale round. 
Have you not about your house, behind your furnace or leade ^ 
A hole where a crafty knave may crepe in for neade ? 95 

Chat. Yes, by the masse, a hole broke down, even within these two 

dayes. 
Diccon. Hodge he intends this same night to slip in there awayes. 
Chat. O Christ ! that I were sure of it ! in faith he shuld have his 

mede ! 
Diccon. Watch wel, for the knave wil be there as sure as is your 
crede. 
I wold spend my selfe a shilling to have him swinged well. lOO 
Chat. I am as glad as a woman can be of this thing to here tell. 
By Gogs bones, when he commeth, now that I know the matter, 
He shal sure at the first skip to leape in scalding water, 

1 Brewing trough. 



sc. 11] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 243 

With a worse turne besides ; when he will, let him come. 

1\} } ^'''' ^' "^^ '^'^^''' y°^ ^"«w what meaneth " mum " \ 
Now lacke I but my doctor to play his part againe. ' io6 

n !> ll^^'^ ^'f ^«"^"^^th towards, perad venture to his paine I 
D. Rat. What good newes, Diccon, fellow ? is Mother Chat at 

home r 
Diccon She is syr, and she is not, but it please her to whome ; 

Yet did I take her tardy, as subtle as she was. no 

D. Rat, The thing that thou wentst for, hast thou brought it to 

passe ? ^ 

Diccon I have done that I have done, be it worse, be it better 
And Dame Chat at her wyts ende I have almost set her. ' 
JX Rat Why, hast thou spied the neele ? quickly, I pray thee, tell ' 
Dtccon I have spyed it, in faith, sir, I handled my selfe so well ; 1 1 c 
And yet the crafty queane had almost take my trumpe 
But or all came to an ende, I set her in a dumpe. 
D. Rat. How so, I pray thee, Diccon ? 

^''''^- , , Mary, syr, will ye heare ? 

bhe was clapt downe on the backside, by Cocks mother dere 
And there she sat sewing a halter or a bande, 120 

With no other thing save Gammers nedle in her hande 
As soone as any knocke, if the filth be in doubte, 
She needes but once pufFe, and her candle is out : 
Now I, sir, knowing of every doore the pin. 
Came nycely, and said no worde, till time I was within ; 12 c 
And there I sawe the neele, even with these two eyes • 
Who ever say the contrary, I will sweare he lyes. 

D. Rat. O Diccon, that I was not there then in thy steade I 

Dtccon Well, if ye will be ordred, and do by my reade, 

I will bring you to a place, as the house standes, i^o 

Where ye shall take the drab with the neele in hir handes 

V. Rat. For Gods sake do so, Diccon, and I will gage my gowne 
To geve thee a full pot of the best ale in the towne. 

Dtccon Follow me but a litle, and marke what I will say ; 

t?IT ^''"' ^'''^" ^^^'^^ ^"""^ s"" ^^' ^^"^^ ^'^ yo^^ 

135 

1 M. begins a new scene here. 



way ! 



244 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. im. sc. n] 

Se ye not what is here ? a hole wherin ye may creepe 
Into the house, and sodenly unwares among them leape ; 
There shal ye linde the bitchfox and the neele together. 
Do as I bid you, man, come on your wayes hether ! 

D. Rat. Art thou sure, Diccon, the swil-tub standes not here 
aboute ? 140 

Diccon. I was within my selfe, man, even now, there is no doubt. 
Go softly, make no noyse ; give me your foote, Sir John. 
Here will I waite upon you, tyl you come out anone. 

D. Rat. Helpe, Diccon 1 out, alas ! I shal be slaine among them ! 

Diccon. If they give you not the nedle, tel them that ye will hang 
them. 145 

Ware that ! Hoow, my wenches ! have ye caught the Foxe 
That used to make revel among your hennes an Cocks ? 
Save his life yet for his order, though he susteine some paine. 
Gogs bread ! I am afraide they wil beate out his braine. 

D. Rat. Wo worth the houre that I came heare ! 150 

And wo worth him that wrought this geare ! 
A sort of drabs and queanes have me blest — 
Was ever creature halfe so evill drest ? 
Who ever it wrought, and first did invent it 
He shall, I warrant him, erre long repent it ! 1 55 

I will spend all I have without my skinne Dili 

But he shall be brought to the plight I am in ! 
Master Bayly, I trow, and he be worth his eares. 
Will snaffle these murderers and all that them beares.^ 
I will surely neither byte nor suppe 160 

Till I fetch him hether, this matter to take up. 

1 H. inserts *w//i>' before 'them.' But *beares' means 'support, uphold.* 



i 



[act. v. sc. i] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 245 
The V. Acte. The i. Sceane. 

Master Bayly. Doctor Rat. 

Bayly. I can perceive none other, I speke it from my hart, 

But either ye ar in al the fault, or els in the greatest part. 

D. Rat. If it be counted his fault, besides all his greeves. 

When a poore man is spoyled and beaten among theeves. 
Then I confess my fault herein, at this season ; 5 

But I hope you will not judge so much against reason. 

Bayly. And, me thinkes, by your owne tale, of all that ye name, 
If any plaid the theefe, you were the very same. 
The women they did nothing, as your words make probation. 
But stoutly withstood your forcible invasion. 10 

If that a theefe at your window to enter should begin. 
Wold you hold forth your hand and helpe to pull him in ? 
Or you wold kepe him out ? I pray you answere me. 

D. Rat. Mary, kepe him out, and a good cause why ! 

But I am no theefe, sir, but an honest learned clarke. 15 

Bayly. Yea, but who knoweth that, when he meets you in the darke ? 
I am sure your learning shines not out at your nose ! 
Was it any marvaile though the poore woman arose 
And start up, being afraide of that was in hir purse ? 
Me thinke you may be glad that you [r] lucke was no worse. 20 

Z). Rat. Is not this evill ynough, I pray you, as you thinke ? 

(^Showing his broken head.) 

Bayly. Yea, but a man in the darke. If 1 chaunces do wincke, 
As soone he smites his father as any other man. 
Because for lacke of light discerne him he ne can. 
Might it not have ben your lucke with a spit to have ben 
slaine ? 25 

D. Rat. I think I am litle better, my scalpe is cloven to the braine. 
If there be all the remedy, I know who beares the k[n]ockes. 

Bayly. By my troth, and well worthy besides to kisse the stockes ! 

1 Printed o/", ed. 1575. 



246 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v 

To come in on the backe side, when ye might go about ! 
I know non such, unles they long to have their braines knockt 
out. 30 

D. Rat. Well, wil you be so good, sir, as talke with Dame Chat, 
And know what she intended ? I aske no more but that. 

Bayly. Let her be called, fellow,^ because of Master Doctor, 
I warrant in this case she wil be hir owne proctor j 
She will tel hir owne tale in metter or in prose, 35 

And byd you seeke your remedy, and so go wype your nose. 



The V. Acte. The ii Sceane. 

M. Bayly. Chat. D. Rat, Gammer. Hodge. Diccon. 

Bayly. Dame Chat, Master Doctor upon you here complained 

That you and your maides shuld him much misorder, 

And taketh many an oth, that no word he fained. 

Laying to your charge, how you thought him to murder ; 

And on his part againe, that same man saith furder 5 

He never offended you in word nor intent. 

To heare you answer hereto, we have now for you sent. 
Chat. That I wold have murdered him ? ^yo^ on him, wretch, 

And*evil mought he thee^ for it, our Lord I beseech. 

I will swere on al the bookes that opens and shuttes, 10 

He faineth this tale out of his owne guttes ; 

For this seven weekes with me I am sure he sat not downe. 

Nay, ye have other minions, in the other end of the towne. 

Where ye were liker to catch such a blow. 

Then any where els, as farre as I know ! 1 5 

Bayly. Belike, then. Master Doctor, yon ^ stripe there ye got not ! 
D. Rat. Thinke you I am so mad that where I was bet I wot not ? 

Wil ye beleve this queane, before she hath tryd it ? 

It is not the first dede she hath done, and afterward denide it. 

1 This is said to Scapethryft, who is nowhere mentioned in the text. 'Fellow' (equivalent 
to * comrade ' ) was originally a courteous mode of addressing a servant, like the French mon ami. 

2 111 may he thrive ; the phrase is common in the fourteenth century. Cf. also '*y-the," 
Hickscornery 1. 187. ^ Ed. lS7Sy°"- 



sc. II] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 247 

Chat. What, man, will you say I broke you [r] heade ? 20 

D. Rat. How canst thou prove the contrary ? 
Chat. Nay, how provest thou that I did the deade ? 
D. Rat. To plainly, by S. Mary, 

This profe I trow may serve, though I no word spoke ! 

( Showing his broken head. ) Div 

Chat. Bicause thy head is broken, was it I that it broke ? 25 

I saw thee. Rat, I tel thee, not once within this fortnight. 

D. Rat. No mary, thou sawest me not, for why thou hadst no light ; 
But I felt thee for al the darke, beshrew thy smothe cheekes ! 
And thou groped me, this wil declare any day this six weekes. 

(^Showing his heade.') 

Bayly. Answere me to this, M[ast] Rat: when caught you this 

harme of yours ? 30 

D. Rat. A while ago, sir, God he knoweth, within les then these 

two houres. 
Bayly. Dame Chat, was there none with you (confesse, i-faith) 
about that season ? 
What, woman ? let it be what it wil, tis neither felony nor 
treason. 
Chat. Yea, by my faith, master Bayly, there was a knave not farre 
Who caught one good philup on the brow with a dore barre, 35 
And well was he worthy, as it semed to mee; 
But what is that to this man, since this was not hee ? 
Bayly. Who was it then ? Lets here ! 

D. Rat. Alas sir, aske you that ? 

Is it not made plain inough by the owne mouth of Dame Chat ? 
The time agreeth, my head is broken, her tong can not lye, 40 
Onely upon a bare nay she saith it was not I. 
Chat. No, mary, was it not indeede ! ye shal here by this one thing : 
This after noone a frend of mine for good wil gave me warning. 
And bade me wel loke to my ruste,^ and al my capons pennes. 
For if I toke not better heede, a knave wold have my 
hennes. 45 



248 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v 

Then I, to save my goods, toke so much pains as him to watch ; 

And as good fortune served me, it was my chaunce hym for to 
catch. 

What strokes he bare away, or other what was his gaines, 

I wot not, but sure I am he had something for his paines ! 
Bayly. Yet telles thou not who it was. 
Chat. Who it was ? a false theefe, 50 

That came like a false foxe my pullaine ^ to kil and mischeefe ! 
Bayly. But knowest thou not his name ? 
Chat. I know it ; but what than ? 

It was that crafty cullyon Hodge, my Gammer Gurtons man. 
Bayly. Cal me the knave hether, he shal sure kysse the stockes. 

I shall teach him a lesson for filching hens or cocks ! 55 

Z). Rat. I marvaile, Master Bayly, so bleared be your eyes ; 

An egge is not so ful of meate, as she is ful of lyes : 

When she hath playd this pranke, to excuse al this geare, 

She layeth the fault in such a one, as I know was not there. 
Chat. Was he not thear ? loke on his pate, that shal be his witnes ! 60 
D. Rat. I wold my head were half so hole ; I wold seeke no redresse ! 
Bayly. God blesse you. Gammer Gurton ! 

Gammer. God dylde you,^ master mine ! 

Bayly. Thou hast a knave within thy house — Hodge, a servant of 
thine ; 

They tel me that busy knave is such a filching one. 

That hen, pig, goose or capon, thy neighbour can have none. 65 
Gammer. By God, cham much ameved,^ to heare any such reporte ! 

Hodge was not wont, ich trow, to have* him in that sort. 
Chat. A theevisher knave is not on live, more filching, nor more 
false ; 

Many a truer man then he base hanged up by the halse ; ^ 

And thou, his dame, — of al his theft thou art the sole 
receaver ; ^ 70 

For Hodge to catch, and thou to kepe, I never knew none 
better ! 

1 poultry. 

2 God yield you, God reward you. Compare Good den, God de-ven = good e'en. 

3 moved, disturbed. * behave. ^ neck. 
6 Perhaps we should read ' recetter,' for the sake of the rime. 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 249 

Gammer. Sir reverence ^ of your masterdome, and you were out 
adoore, 

Chold be so bolde, for al hir brags, to cal her arrant whoore ; 

And ich knew Hodge as bad as tow,^ ich wish me endlesse 
sorow 

And chould not take the pains to hang him up before to 

morow ! 75 

Chat. What have I stolne from the or thine, thou ilfavored olde trot ? 

Gammer. A great deale more, by Gods blest, then chever by the got ! 

That thou knowest wel, I neade not say it. 
Bayly. Stoppe there, I say, 

And tel me here, I pray you, this matter by the way, 

How chaunce Hodge is not here ? him wold I faine have had. 80 
Gammer. Alas, sir, heel be here anon ; ha be handled to bad. 
Chat. Master Bayly, sir, ye be not such a foole, wel I know. 

But ye perceive by this lingring there is a pad ^ in the straw. 

( Thinking that Hodg his head was broke y and that Gammer wold not let him 

come before them. ) 

Gammer. Chil shew you his face, ich warrant the ; lo now where 

he is ! 
Bayly. Come on, fellow, it is tolde me thou art a shrew, iwysse : 85 
Thy neighbours hens thou takest,and playesthe two legged foxe ; 
Their chickens and their capons to, and now and then their 

cocks. 
Hodge. Ich defy them al that dare it say, cham as true as the best ! 
Bayly. Wart not thou take within this houre in Dame Chats hens 

nest ? 
Hodge. Take there ? no, master ; chold not dot for a house ful of 

gold ! 90 

Chat. Thou or the devil in thy cote — sweare this I dare be bold. 
D. Rat, Sweare me no swearing, quean, the devill he geve the 

sorow ! 
Al is not worth a gnat thou canst sweare till to morow : E 

1 saving your reverence. 2 ^g thou. 

2 Toad; the same phrase occurs in Gosson, Ephemerides of Phialo (Arber) 63, "I have 
neither replyed to the writer of this libel . . . nor let him go scot free . . . but poynted to 
the strawe where the padd lurkes." 



250 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v 

Where is the harme he hath ? shew it, by Gods bread ! 
Ye beat him with a witnes, but the stripes light on my head ! 95 
Hodge. Bet me ? Gogs blessed body, chold first, ich trow, have 
burst the ! 
Ich thinke and chad my hands loose, callet, chould have crust 
the! 
Chat, Thou shitten knave, I trow thou knowest the ful weight of 
my fist ; 
I am fowly deceved onles thy head and my doore bar kyste. 
Hodge, Hold thy chat, whore, thou criest so loude, can no man els 
be hard. 100 

Chat. Well, knave, and I had the alone, I wold surely rap thy 

costard ! 
Bayly, Sir, answer me to this : is thy head whole or broken ? 
Hodge} Yea, Master Bayly, blest be every good token. 

Is my head whole ! Ich warrant you, tis neither scurvy nor 

scald ! 
What, you foule beast, does think tis either pild or bald ? 105 
Nay, ich thanke God, chil not for al that thou maist spend 
That chad one scab on my narse as brode as thy fingers 
end. 
Bayly. Come nearer heare ! 
Hodge. Yes, that I dare. 

Bayly. By our Lady, here is no harme, 

Hodges head is whole ynough, for al Dame Chats charme. 
Chat. By Gogs blest, hou ever the thing he clockes or smolders,^ no 
I know the blowes he bare away, either with head or shoul- 
ders. 
Camest thou not, knave, within this houre, creping into my 

pens, 
And there was caught within my hous groping among my 
hens ? 
Hodge. A plage both on the hens & the ! A carte, whore, a 
carte ! 
Chould I were hanged as hie as a tree and chware as false as 
thou art! 115 

1 Ed. 1575 gives this line to Chat. 2 cloaks or smothers. 



sc. II] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 251 

Geve my gammer again her washical ^ thou stole away in thy 
lap! 
Gam?ner. Yea Maister Baily, there is a thing you know not on, 
mayhap ; 
This drab she kepes away my good, the devil he might her 

snare ! 

Ich pray you that ich might have a right action on her [fare] . 

Chat. Have I thy good, old filth, or any such old sowes ? 1 20 

I am as true, I wold thou knew, as skin betwene thy browes ! 

Gammer. Many a truer hath ben hanged, though you escape the 

daunger ! 
Chat. Thou shalt answer, by Gods pity, for this thy foule slaunder ! 
Bayly. Why, what can ye charge hir withal ? To say so ye do not 

well. 
Gammer. Mary, a vengeance to hir hart ! the whore base stoln my 
neele ! 125 

Chat. Thy nedle, old witch ? how so ? it were almes thy scul to 
knock ! 
So didst thou say the other day that I had stolne thy cock. 
And rosted him to my breakfast, which shal not be forgotten ; 
The devil pul out thy lying tong and teeth that be so rotten ! 
Gammer. Geve me my neele ! As for my cock, chould be very 
loth 130 

That chuld here tel he shuld hang on thy false faith and 
troth. 
Bayly. Your talke is such, I can scarce learne who shuld be most 

in fault. 
Gammer. Yet shall be find no other wight, save she, by bred and 

salt ! 
Bayly. Kepe ye content a while, se that your tonges ye holde. 

Me thinkes you shuld remembre this is no place to scolde. 135 
How knowest thou. Gammer Gurton, Dame Chat thy nedle 
had? 
Gammer. To name you, sir, the party, chould not be very glad. 
Bayly. Yea, but we must nedes heare it, and therfore say it boldly. 
Gammer. Such one as told the tale full soberly and coldly, 

1 what shall I call (it). Compare ^'- nicebecetur^'''' R. D. I. iv. il. 



252 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v 

Even he that loked on — wil sweare on a booke — 140 

What time this drunken gossip my faire long neele up tooke, 
Diccon, master, the Bedlam, cham very sure ye know him, 

Bayly. A false knave, by Gods pitie ! ye were but a foole to trow him. 
I durst aventure wel the price of my best cap. 
That when the end is knowen, all will turne to a jape. 145 
Tolde he not you that besides she stole your cocke that tyde ? 

Gammer. No, master, no indede; for then he shuld have lyed. 
My cocke is, I thanke Christ, safe and wel a fine. 

Chat. Yea, but that ragged colt, that whore, that Tyb of thine, 

Said plainly thy cocke was stolne, and in my house was 
eaten. 150 

That lying cut ^ is lost that she is not swinged and beaten. 
And yet for al my good name, it were a small amendes ! 
I picice not this geare, hearst thou, out of my fingers endes j 
But he that hard it told me, who thou of late didst name, 
Diccon, whom al men knowes, it was the very same. 155 

Bayly. This is the case : you lost your nedle about the dores, 
And she answeres againe, she base no cocke of yours ; 
Thus in you [r] talke and action, from that you do intend, 
She is whole five mile wide, from that she doth defend. 
Will you say she hath your cocke ? 

Gammer. No, mary,^ sir, that chil not, 160 

Bayly. Will you confesse hir neele ? 

Chat. Will I ? No sir, will I not. 

Bayly. Then there lieth all the matter. 

Gammer. Soft, master, by the way ! 

Ye know she could do litle, and she cold not say nay. 

Bayly. Yea, but he that made one lie about your cock stealing, 

Wil not sticke to make another, what time lies be in deal- 
ing. 165 
I wene the ende wil prove this brawle did first arise Eii 
Upon no other ground but only Diccons lyes. 

Chat. Though some be lyes, as you belike have espyed them. 
Yet other some be true, by proof I have wel tryed them. 

1 * cut ' is often used in the sixteenth century as a term of abuse, especially for women. 

2 Printed mery. 



1 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 253 

Bayly, What other thing beside this, Dame Chat ? 
^^^^- Mary syr, even this. 170 

The tale I tolde before, the selfe same tale it was his ; 
He gave me, like a frende, warning against my losse, 
Els had my hens be stolne eche one, by Gods crosse ! 
He tolde me Hodge wold come, and in he came indeede 
But as the matter chaunsed, with greater hast than speede. 175 
This truth was said, and true was found, as truly I report. 
Bayly, If Doctor Rat be not deceived, it was of another sort. 
D. Rat, By Gods mother, thou and he be a cople of suttle foxes ! 
Betweene you and Hodge, I beare away the boxes. 
Did not Diccon apoynt the place, wher thou shuldst stand to 
mete him ? jgQ 

Chat, Yes, by the masse, and if he came, bad me not sticke to 

speet 1 hym. 
D, Rat, Gods sacrament ! the villain knave hath drest us round 
about ! 
He is the cause of all this brawle, that dyrty shitten loute ! 
When Gammer Gurton here complained, and made a ruful 

mone, 
I heard him sweare that you had gotten hir nedle that was 
gone; 18^ 

And this to try, he furder said, he was ful loth ; how be it 
He was content with small adoe to bring me where to see it. 
And where ye sat, he said ful certain, if I wold folow his read. 
Into your house a privy way he wold me guide and leade. 
And where ye had it in your hands, sewing about a clowte, 190 
And set me in the backe hole, therby to finde you out : 
And whiles I sought a quietnes, creping upon my knees, 
I found the weight of your dore bar for my reward and fees. 
Such is the lucke that some men gets, while they begin to mel 
In setting at one such as were out, minding to make al wel. 195 
Hodge, Was not wel blest. Gammer, to scape that stoure ? 2 And 
chad ben there. 
Then chad been drest,^ be like, as ill, by the masse, as GafFar 
Vicar. 

^ spit. 2 < stoure,' uproar Printed scour e. 3 served out, done for. 



254 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v 

Bayly. Mary, sir, here is a sport alone ; I loked for such an end. 
If Diccon had not playd the knave, this had ben sone amend. 
My gammer here he made a foole, and drest hir as she was; 200 
And Goodwife Chat he set to scole, till both partes cried alas ; 
And D [octor] Rat was not behind, whiles Chat his crown did 

pare. 

I wold the knave had ben starke blind, if Hodg had not his 

share. 

Hodge. Cham meetly wel sped alredy amongs, cham drest lik a coult ! 

And chad not had the better wit, chad bene made a doult. 205 

Bayly. Sir knave, make hast Diccon were here, fetch him, where 

ever he bee ! 
Chat. Fie on the villaine, fie, fie ! that makes us thus agree ! 
Gammer. Fie on him, knave, with al my hart ! now fie ! and fie 

againe ! 
D. Rat. Now " fie on him ! " may I best say, whom he hath almost 

slaine. 
Bayly. Lo where he commeth at hand, belike he was not fare ! 210 

Diccon, heare be two or three thy company can not spare. 
Diccon. God blesse you, and you may be blest, so many al at once. 
Chat. Come knave, it were a good deed to geld the, by Cockes bones ! 

Seest not thy handiwarke ? Sir Rat, can ye forbeare him ? 
Diccon. A vengeance on those hands lite, for my hands cam not 
nere hym. 215 

The horsen priest hath lift the pot in some of these alewyves 

chayres 
That his head wolde not serve him, belyke, to come downe 
the stayres. 
Bayly. Nay, soft ! thou maist not play the knave, and have this 
language to ! 
If thou thy tong bridle a while, the better maist thou do. 
Confesse the truth, as I shall aske, and cease a while to 
fable; 2 20 

And for thy fault I promise the thy handling shalbe reasonable. 
Hast thou not made a lie or two, to set these two bv the eares ? 
Diccon. What if I have ? five hundred such have I seene within 
these seven yeares : 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 255 

I am sory for nothing else but that I see not the sport 

Which was betwene them when they met, as they them selves 
report. 225 

Bayly. The greatest thing — Master Rat, ye se how he is drest ! 
Diccon. What devil nede he be groping so depe, in Goodwife Chats 

hens nest ? 
Bayly. Yea, but it was thy drift to bring him into the briars. 
Diccon, Gods bread ! hath not such an old foole wit to save his 
eares ? 

He showeth himselfe herein, ye see, so very a coxe, 230 

The cat was not so madly alured by the foxe 

To run into the snares was set for him, doubtlesse ; 

For he leapt in for myce, and this Sir John for madnes. 
D. Rat. Well, and ye shift no better, ye losel, lyther, and lasye, 

I will go neare for this to make ye leape at a dasye.^ 235 

In the kings name, Master Bayly, I charge you set him fast. 
Diccon. What, faste at cardes, or fast on slepe ? it is the thing I 

did last. 
D. Rat. Nay, fast in fetters, false varlet, according to thy deedes. 
Bayly. Master Doctor, ther is no remedy, I must intreat you needes 

Some other kinde of punishment. EiH 

D. Rat. Nay by all halowes 240 

His punishment if I may judg, shal be naught els but the 
gallous. 
Bayly. That ware to sore, a spiritual man to be so extreame ! 
D. Rat. Is he worthy any better, sir ? how do ye judge and deame ? 
Bayly. I graunt him wort[h]ie punishment, but in no wise so great. 
Gammer. It is a shame, ich tel you plaine, for such false knaves 
intreat ! . 245 

He has almost undone us al — that is as true as Steele, — 

And yet for al this great ado cham never the nere my neele ! 
Bayly. Canst thou not say any thing to that, Diccon, with least or 

most ? 
Diccon. Yea, mary, sir, this much I can say wel, the nedle is lost. 

1 to *leap at a daisy,' to be hanged. The allusion is to a story of a man who, when the 
noose was adjusted round his neck, leapt off with the words, "Have at yon daisy yonder" 
( Pasquil ' s Jests^ 1 604 ) . 



256 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v 

Bayly. Nay, canst not thou tel which way that nedle may be 
found ? ^50 

D'lccon. No, by my fay, sir, though I might have an hundred pound. 

Hodge. Thou lier, lickdish, didst not say the neele wold be gitten ? 

Diccon. No, Hodge, by the same token, you were ^ that time be- 
shitten 
For feare of Hobgobling — you wot wel what I meane ; 
As long as it is sence, I feare me yet ye be scarce cleane. 255 

Bayly. Wel, Master Rat, you must both learne and teach us to 
forgeve. 
Since Diccon hath confession made, and is so cleane shreve, 
If ye to me conscent, to amend this heavie chaunce, 
I wil injoyne him here some open kind of penaunce. 
Of this condition (where ye know my fee is twenty pence) : 260 
For the bloodshed, I am agreed with you here to dispence ; 
Ye shal go quite, so that ye graunt the matter now to run 
To end with mirth emong us al, even as it was begun. 

Chat. Say yea. Master Vicar, and he shall sure confes to be your detter, 

And al we that be heare present, wil love you much the 

better. 265 

D. Rat. My part is the worst ; but since you al here on agree, 
Go even to, Master Bayly ! let it be so for mee ! 

Bayly. How saiest thou, Diccon ? art content this shal on me depend r 

Diccon. Go to, M[ast] Bayly, say on your mind, I know ye are 
my frend. 

Bayly. Then marke ye wel : To recompence this thy former 
action, — 270 

Because thou hast offended al, to make them satisfaction, — 
Before their faces here kneele downe, and, as I shal the teach, — 
For thou shalt take an ^ othe of Hodges leather breache : 
First, for Master Doctor, upon paine of his cursse. 
Where he wil pay for al, thou never draw thy purse; 275 

And when ye meete at one pot he shall have the first pull. 
And thou shalt never offer him the cup but it be full. 
To Goodwife that thou shalt be sworne, even on the same wyse, 
If she refuse thy money once, never to offer it twise. 

1 Ed. 1575 'where. 2 jd. 1575 on. 



sc. ii] Gammer Gurtons Nedle 257 

Thou shalt be bound by the same, here as thou dost take 
it, 280 

When thou maist drinke of free cost, thou never forsake it. 

For Gammer Gurton's sake, againe svvorne shalt thou bee, 

To helpe hir to hir nedle againe if it do ^ie in thee ; 

And likewise be bound, by the vertue of that, 

To be of good abering to Gib her great cat. 285 

Last of al, for Hodge the othe to scanne. 

Thou shalt never take him for fine gentleman. 
Hodge, Come, on, fellow Diccon, chal be even with thee now ! 
Bayly. Thou wilt not sticke to do this, Diccon, I trow ? 
Diccon. Now, by my fathers skin ! my hand downe I lay it ! 290 

Loke, as I have promised, I wil not denay it. 

But, Hodge, take good heede now, thou do not beshite me ! 

( And gave him a good blow on the buttocke. ) 

Hodge. Gogs hart ! thou false villaine, dost thou bite me ? 
Bayly. What, Hodge, doth he hurt thee or ever he begin ? 
Hodge. He thrust me into the buttocke with a bodkin or a pin ! 295 

I saie. Gammer ! Gammer ! 
Gammer. How now Hodge, how now ? 

Hodge. Gods malt. Gammer Gurton ! 

Gammer. Thou art mad, ich trow ! 

Hodge. Will you see the devil. Gammer ? 

Gammer. The devil, sonne ! God blesse us ! 

Hodge. Chould iche were hanged, Gammer — 
Gammer. Mary, se, ye might dresse us — 

Hodge. Chave it, by the masse. Gammer ! 

Gammer. What ? not my neele, Hodge ? 300 

Hodge. Your neele. Gammer ! your neele ! 

Gammer. No, fie, dost but dodge ! 

Hodge. Cha found your neele. Gammer, here in my hand be it ! 
Gammer. For al the loves on earth, Hodge, let me see it ! 
Hodge. Soft, Gammer ! 
Gammer. Good Hodge ! 

Hodge. Soft, ich say ; tarie a while ! 

Gammer. Nay, sweete Hodge, say truth, and do not me begile ! 305 



258 Gammer Gurtons Nedle [act. v. sc. n] 

Hodge, Cham sure on It, ich warrant you j it goes no more a stray. 
Gammer. Hodge, when I speake so faire ; wilt stil say me nay ? 
Hodge. Go neare the light, Gammer, this — wel, in faith, good 
lucke ! — 

Chwas almost undone, twas so far in my buttocke ! Eiv 

Gammer. Tis mjn owne deare neele, Hodge, sykerly I wot ! 310 
Hodge. Cham I not a good sonne. Gammer, cham I not ? 
Gammer. Christs blessing light on thee, hast made me for ever ! 
Hodge. Ich knew that ich must finde it, els choud a had it never ! 
Chat. By my troth, gossyp Gurton, I am even as glad 

As though I mine owne selfe as good a turne had ! 315 

Bayly. And I, by my concience, to see it so come forth, 

Rejoyce so much at it as three nedles be worth. 
D. Rat. I am no whit sory to see you so rejoyce. 
D'lccon. Nor I much the gladder for al this noyce ; 

Yet say " gramercy, Diccon,'* for springing of the game. 320 
Gammer. Gramercy, Diccon, twenty times ! O how glad cham ! 

If that chould do so much, your masterdome to come hether, 

Master Rat, Goodwife Chat, and Diccon together, 

Cha but one halfpeny, as far as iche know it. 

And chil not rest this night till ich bestow it. 325 

If ever ye love me, let us go in and drinke. 
Bayly. I am content, if the rest thinke as I thinke. 

Master Rat, it shal be best for you if we so doo ; 

Then shall you warme you and dresse your self too. 
Diccon. Soft, syrs, take us with you, the company shal be the more ! 

As proude coms behinde, they say, as any goes before 1 

But now, my good masters, since we must be gone, 

And leave you behinde us here all alone; 

Since at our last ending thus mery we bee, 

For Gammer Gurtons nedle sake, let us have a plaudytie! 

Finis. Gurton. Perused and alowed, &c. 

Imprinted at London 

in Fleetestreate beneath the Conduite, 

at the signe of S. John Euangelist, by 

Thomas Colwell 

1575- 



I 



APPENDIX 

The song at the beginning of the second act exists in an older and better 
version, which was printed by Dyce (from a Ms. in his own possession) in 
his edition of Skelton's Works, Vol. I, p. vii. It is not Hkely that the date 
of the composition is much older than the middle of the sixteenth century, 
and it may possibly be later. The following copy is taken from Dyce, but 
the punctuation and the capitals have been adjusted in accordance with the 
rules elsewhere adopted in the present work. 

Backe and syde goo bare, goo bare ; 
Bothe hande and fote goo colde ; 
But, belly, God sende the good ale inoughe. 
Whether hyt be newe or olde. 

But yf that I maye have, trwly, 

Goode ale my belly full, 

I shall looke lyke one (by swete sainte Johnn) 

Were shoron agaynste the woole. 

Thowthe I goo bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothynge colde. 

I stufFe my skynne so full within 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

I cannot eate but lytyll meate ; 

My stomacke ys not goode ; 

But sure I thyncke that I cowde dryncke 

With hym that werythe an hoode. 

Dryncke ys my lyfe ; although my wyfe 

Some tyme do chyde and scolde, 

Yete spare I not to plye the potte 

Of joly goode ale and olde. 

Backe and syde, etc. 

259 



26o Appendix 



I love no roste but a browne toste^ 

Or a crabbe in the fyer ; 

A lytyll breade shall do me steade, 

Mooche breade I never desyer. 

Nor f roste, nor snowe, nor wynde, I trow, 

Canne hurte me yf hyt wolde ; 

I am so wrapped within, and lapped 

With joly goode ale and olde. 

Backe and syde, etc. 

I care ryte noughte, I take no thowte 

For clothes to kepe me warme ; 

Have I goode dry n eke, I surely thyncke 

Nothyng can do me harme. 

For trwly than I feare no man. 

Be he never so bolde. 

When I am armed, and throwly warmed 

With joly good ale and olde. 

Backe and syde, etc. 

But nowe and than I curse and banne ; 

They make ther ale so small ! 

God geve them care, and evill to fare ! 

They strye the make and all. 

Soche pevisshe pewe, I tell yowe trwe. 

Not for a crowne of golde 

There commethe one syppe within my lyppc. 

Whether hyt be newe or olde, 

Backe and syde, etc. 

Good ale and stronge makethe me amonge 

Full joconde and full lyte. 

That ofte I slepe, and take no kepe 

From mornynge untyll nyte. 

Then starte I uppe, and fle to the cuppe ; 

The ryte waye on I holde. 

My thurste to staunche I fyll my paunche 

With joly goode ale and olde. 

Backe and syde, etc. 



Appendix 261 



And Kytte, my wyfe, that as her lyfe 

Lovethe well good ale to seke. 

Full ofte drynkythe she that ye maye se 

The teares ronne downe her cheke. 

Then dothe she troule to me the bolle 

As a goode malte-worme sholde. 

And say, ** Swete harte, I have take my parte 

Of joly goode ale and olde." 

Backe and syde, etc. 

They that do dryncke tylle they nodde and wyncke. 

Even as good fellowes shulde do. 

They shall notte mysse to have the blysse 

That good ale hathe browghte them to. 

And all poore soules that skoure blacke bolles. 

And them hath lustely trowlde, 

God save the ly ves of them and ther wy vcs. 

Wether they be yonge or olde ! 

Backe and syde, etc. 



4 



"John Lyly 



ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE 



Edited with Critical Essay and Notes 
by George P. Baker, J.B., Asst. 
Professor in Harvard University 



I 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

Life. — John Lyly was born in Kent between October 8, 1553, and 
January, 1554. He entered Magdalen College, Oxford, 1569, but was 
almost immediately rusticated. Returning in October, 1571, he was gradu- 
ated B.A. April 27, 1573. In May, 1574, he wrote unsuccessfully to 
Lord Burleigh, begging for a fellowship at Magdalen. He proceeded M.A. 
June I, 1575, and Hved mainly at the Universities till 1579. Euphues, 
the Anatomie of Wity appeared between December, 1578, and spring, 1579. 
Another edition was printed in 1579 ; twelve others before 1637. In A?i 
Address to the Gentlemen Scholars of Oxford^ prefixed to the second, the 
1579, edition, he answered a charge of having unfairly criticised Oxford in 
the Anatomie of Wit. A sequel, Euphues and his England y was licensed 
July 24, 1579, but did not appear for months. Probably Lyly shared in 
the disfavour which, from late July, i 579, to July, i 580, the Queen showed 
the party of Robert Dudley because of his secret marriage with the Countess 
of Essex. Endimion, probably the first of Lyly' s extant comedies, was pre- 
sented between late July and early November, 1579, as an allegorical treat- 
ment of this quarrel. In or near July, 1580, Lyly was ** entertained as 
servant " by the Queen, and was advised to aim at the Mastership of the 
Revels. By July, 1582, he is to be found in the household of Lord Bur- 
leigh. A letter of his was prefixed to Watson's Passionate Centurie of Love, 
published 1582. By 1589, possibly earlier, he had become vice-master of 
St. Paul's choir school. Before 1584 the Chapel Children and the Paul's 
Boys, for whom he had written, ceased to act. During 1^4 his Sapho and 
Phaoy written not long after February 6, 1582, and his Alexander and Cam- 
paspe were printed. Tityrus and Gallathea, licensed in 1584, was not 
printed till 1592. Probably the main plot was written before 1584, and 
the sub-plot for a revision of the play in or near 1588. From 1585 Lyly 
wrote for the Paul's Boys till in or near 1591, when the company was 
again silent. The Chapel Children were not acting publicly between No- 
vember, 1584, and 1597. His My^^j was acted between August, 1588, 
and November, 1589, and printed in 1592. In August or September, 
1589, a pamphlet entided Pappe-with-an-Hatchety written by him for the 
High Church party in the Marprelate controversy, made its appearance. His. 

265 



266 John Lyly 

Mother Bombie W2i?, acted in 1589 or 1590, and printed in 1594. Alex- 
ander and Campaspe and Sapho and Phao were reprinted in 1591, and in the 
same year Endimion was printed. Gallathea appeared in 1592. Lyly 
wrote, in 1590 or 1 591, an apparendy unsuccessful begging letter to the 
Queen, and another in 1593 or 1594. He was married by 1589, and he 
had two sons and one daughter. He was member of Parliament for Hin- 
don in 1589 ; for Aylesbury in 1593 and 1601 ; and for Appleby in 1597. 
The Woman in the Moone was licensed in 1595, printed in 1597. The 
quality of the blank verse in this play and the absence of marked Euphuism 
favour a date of composition in or near 1590. Lillie^ s Light was licensed 
June 3, 1 596. If printed, it is non-extant. He wrote prefatory Latin 
lines for Henry Lock's Eccksiastes, otherwise called The Preacher y in 1597. 
In I 597-1 600 the Chapel Children revived his plays. The Maid^s Meta- 
morphosis, incorrecdy attributed to Lyly, was printed in 1600. His Lovers 
Metamorphosis was printed in 1601 : it had been written about the time of 
the Gallathea, — before 1584, or between 1588 and 1591. The Protea- 
Petuhus part is probably from a different play, or is a survival in a revision, 
Lyly died November 30, 1606, and was buried at St. Bartholomew's.^ 

The Place of Euphues in English Literature. — John Lyly was poet, 
pamphleteer, novelist, and dramatist. As a pamphleteer he is unim- 
portant. As a poet he can best be studied in his plays. It is, 
then, as novelist and dramatist that he is important. The material 
of the two parts of the Euphues makes it decidedly significant in its 
own time. It is not, like most of the stories of Greene and Lodge, 
mere romance, nor, like Nash's Jack Wilton^ a tale of adventure 
phrased with reportorial recklessness. It is a love story in which 
romance is subordinated to the inculcation of ideas of high living 
and thinking, and the demands of an involved style. It dimly fore- 
shadows two literary products which reach a development only long 
after the days of Elizabeth — the novel with a purpose, and the 
stylistic novel. The appearance of the book was epochal. Young 
writers of the day — Munday, Greene, Nash, and Lodge — copied 
its style. Courtiers patterned their speech upon it. Yet Gabriel 
Harvey was probably right when he ill-naturedly wrote : " Young 
Euphues but hatched the egges that his elder freendes laide." The 
Anatomie^ at least, is such a book as a recent university graduate of 

1 The Introduction to Endimion^ Holt & Co., carefully considers the evidence for all these 
statements. 



yohn Lyly 267 

the present day, well read in some of the classics, and especially 
susceptible to new literary influences and cults, might compile. In 
the division Euphues and His Ephcebus Lyly uses, with a few omis- 
sions and additions, Plutarch on Education ; in the letter to Botonio 
he translates Plutarch on Exile. In the part Euphues and Atheos he 
is 'indebted to chapters 9, 10, 11, and 12 of the Dial of Princes 
(1529) by Antonio de Guevara, Bishop of Guadix and Mendoza. 
Euphues and Lucilla debate " dubii," or artificial discussions of set 
questions, such as one finds in Hortensio Lando or Castiglione. 
There is, too, almost constant use of the unnatural natural history 
of Pliny. All this material is bound together by a style which, 
though it may ultimately be traced to the rounded periods of 
Cicero, had developed slowly in writers of the Renaissance and the 
years just before Euphues appeared. George Pettie, for instance, 
in his Pettie Palace of Pettie His Pleasure^ published in 1576, has 
all the stylistic characteristics of the Euphues except the fabulous 
natural history. It is, however, to Guevara in the Dial of Princes 
that Lyly is thought to be particularly indebted for his style. This 
man used " lavishly the well-known figures of pointed antithesis 
and parisonic balanced clauses, in connection with a general climac- 
tic structure of the sentence or period, the emphatic or antithetic 
words being marked by rhyme or assonance." Lyly substitutes for 
rhyme alliteration, and adds persistent play on words. The book 
is genuinely Renaissance, then, for, looking to classic literature for 
much of its substance, it expresses itself in a style that typifies an 
intellectual mood of the hour. 

Lyly's Plays : their Subdivision Just before 1580 the acting of 

choir boys was in great favour with the Queen and, as a conse- 
quence, with the public. The boys of Westminster, Windsor, the 
Chapel Royal, and St. Paul's were often summoned to court. For 
the last two companies, with whom acting became a profession, 
Lyly wrote his plays. These divide into four classes. The alle- 
gorical comedies, in which what is alluded to is as important as 
what is said, are Endimion., Sapho and Phao^ and Mydas. Endimion.^ 
perhaps the most complete example of Lyly's allegorical comedy, 
presents the apology of Leicester to the Queen for his secret mar- 
riage with Lettice, Countess of Essex. Sapho and Phao is full of 



268 yohn Lyly 



n 



allusions to the coquetting of the Queen with the Due d'Alen^on 
and his wrathful departure from England in February, 1582. Mydas 
allegorises — though with less detail than the others — as to the 
designs of Philip II. on the English throne, and the Spanish 
Armada. Gallathea^ Love's Metamorphosis^ and The Woman in the 
Moone form a second class — pastoral comedies. They are alle- 
gorical only when some figure is given qualities which the Queen 
was fond of hearing praised as hers. Mother Bombie^ standing 
alone as a comedy on the model of Plautus, has a much more in- 
volved plot than any of the other plays. Finally, also in a class 
by itself, is Alexander and Campaspe. 

In this, as in all the comedies except Mother Bombie and Love's 
Metamorphosis^ Lyly used classic myth for his chief material. Yet 
he but followed a custom of the day, for most of the plays given 
at court between 1570 and 1590 by the children's companies were 
based on such material : for instance, Iphigenia^ Narcissus^ Alcmaon^ 
^intus Fabius^ and Scipio Africanus. These subjects seem to have 
been treated as pastorals, histories, and possibly allegories. Lyly 
rejected in Alexander and Campaspe the allegorical and the pastoral 
form, and told rather naively, except in style, the story of the love 
of Alexander and Apelles for Campaspe, repeating in his sub-plot 
many historic retorts of Diogenes. In details of method Lyly 
seems to have had a precursor. Richard Edwardes (born 1523, died 
1566) in his Damon and Pythias^ printed in 1582, but usually 
assigned to 1564, wrote in a way very suggestive of Lyly in Alex- 
ander and Campaspe. He disclaimed in his prologue intention of 
referring to any court except that of Dionysius at Syracuse ; intro- 
duced lyrics ; gave Aristippus the philosopher an important place ; 
inveighed against flattery at the court ; brought in the comic 
episode of Grim the collier without connection with the main plot, 
just as Lyly often introduces his comic material ; and derived the 
fun of this scene mainly from two impudent pages. Certainly it 
would have been natural for Lyly, early in his career, to look to 
the plays of a former prominent master of the Chapel Children. 

Alexander and Campaspe : Date, Sources. — The exact date of 
Alexander and Campaspe it seems impossible to determine. It 
was written before April, 1584, for it was licensed for printing in 



yohn Lyly 269 

that month. The facts that similes and references in Euphues are 
found in it, and that the work — here of a kind which Lyly never 
exactly repeats — resembles the early Damon and Pythias suggest 
that Alexander and Campaspe belongs early in his dramatic career. 
It has been held that it should precede Endimion^ but the allegory in 
that play ; the fact that Blount, who places Sapho and Phao^ Galla- 
thea^ Mydas^ and Mother Bomhie in the order approved by the most 
recent criticism, puts it second ; and the better characterization, 
more natural dialogue, and slightly closer binding together of the 
main and the sub-plot, argue for the second place. 

The play, like the Anatom'ie of Wit^ is a composite. The main 
plot — the story of Apelles and Campaspe — Lyly found in Book 
35 of Pliny's History of the World. His setting he took from 
Plutarch's Life of Alexander. That, too, gave him the siege of 
Thebes, Timoclea, some of the philosophers' names, most of their 
speeches, the generals, and Hephestion, and probably suggested the 
possibilities of Diogenes as a comic figure. The material for the 
scenes of the Cynic, and the name Manes, he found in the Lives 
of the Philosophers by Diogenes Laertius. 

Literary Estimate. — In the extant plays from 1550 to 1580 love 
has but a subordinate part. In Alexander and Campaspe., however, as 
in all the Lyly comedies, the central idea is that of nearly all the 
great plays of the Elizabethan drama — the love of man for woman^' 
Doubtless the subject appealed to Lyly especially because in the self- 
abnegation of Alexander the Queen might choose to see a compli- 
ment to her final position toward Leicester and the Countess of Essex. 
Diogenes he used in order to get comic relief. That Lyly's com- 
edies are comparatively free from vulgarity is probably because they 
were given by children before the Queen and her ladies. Possibly 
the youth of the actors is the reason for the absence of strong 
emotional expression, but it is more probable that the temperament 
of the author is responsible. It is hard to believe that a dramatist 
who felt keenly emotional possibilities in his material could have 
passed by Timoclea so rapidly, for in Plutarch she has all the 
requisites of the heroine in a Beaumont and Fletcher play. Nor 
would such a dramatist have made so little of the struggle of Alex- 
ander between infatuation and the desire to regain his accustomed 



270 yohn Ly/y 

self-command. Lyly's position toward his work is like that of the 
early writers of chronicle-history plays. He does not depend on 
selecting the most characteristic situations and speeches, on supply- 
ing missing motives, on unification of material which history has 
passed down in somewhat disordered fashion, but on repeating as 
many as possible of the situations and speeches associated with the 
names. Like those writers, too, he makes no attempt to get 
behind his material, to see its interrelations and its dramatic sig- 
nificance as a whole. 

Some allowance, however, must be made for faults in this play, 
for the Prologue states that it was hastily written. The comedy 
itself shows that Lyly planned as he wrote. The opening scene 
of the play leaves one to suppose that Timoclea, who, rather 
than Campaspe, is the chief female speaker, is to play an impor- 
tant part. She never appears again, and is mentioned but once. 
Later parts of the play call for some manifestation, in this first 
scene, of Campaspe's intense fascination for Alexander, but there 
is nothing of the kind. Nor does the action in any later scene 
really prepare for Alexander's self-reproaches for his mad infatu- 
ation. Until late in the play, when Lyly speaks of Campaspe 
as Alexander's concubine, a reader is not even entirely clear as 
to their relations. Perhaps some of this lack of clearness and 
sequence may result because the Timoclea part, at least, of the 
first scene is a survival from an older play. In the Accounts of the 
Revels at Court^ under an entry for expenditures between January 
and February, 1573(4), "One Playe showen at Hampton Coorte 
before her Ma*'^ by Mr. Munkester's Children " (Mulcaster's of 
the Merchant Taylors' School) is mentioned. Interlined are the 
words : " Timoclia at the Sege of Thebes by Alexander." 

The movement of the comedy is episodic. The clever little 
pages bind the scenes together ; Alexander connects the incidents 
of the main story ; but too often, especially in the sub-plot, the 
action is not prepared for, and does not lead to anything. Nor 
does Lyly care much for climax. The Diogenes sub-plot does not 
end ; it is dropped just before the main story closes. The great 
dramatic possibilities of the final scene are practically thrown away. 
It is significant that they could be developed only by a hand which 



yohn Ly/y 271 

could paint vividly the contest of a soul, the gradual reascendency 
of old motives, and manly renunciation. 

<^rowth in character Lyly does not understand. As a rule his 
figures are types rather than many-sided human beings. Nor are 
the types always self-consistent. All the nobility of Alexander's 
renunciation disappears when he says : " Go, Apelles, take with 
you your Campaspe ; Alexander is cloyed with looking on that 
which thou wond'rest at." In general, Lyly is too ready to depend 
on the way in which his figures speak rather than on truth to life 
in what they speak. In the retorts of Apelles as he talks with 
Alexander of his work, there is, of course, something of the real 
artist's pride in his art and irritation at royal omniscience. There 
is characterization, too, in many of the speeches of Diogenes, but 
in both of these instances Lyly is either quoting or paraphrasing. 
Campaspe, it is true, is almost a character, and slightly antici- 
pates the arch heroines of Shakespeare. Hers are coquettishness, 
womanly charm. In her scene with Apelles in the studio (Act IV. 
scene 2), the underlying passion of both almost breaks through the 
frigid medium of expression. The pages may doubtless be traced 
back to the witty, graceless slaves of Latin comedy, and more 
immediately to precursors in the work of Edwardes, but Lyly adds 
so much individuality and humour that they are a real accession in 
the history of the drama. Moreover, many of his figures often 
comment incisively on customs and follies of the time, preparing 
for the later comedy of manners. 

No preceding play is so full of charming and lasting lyrics. 
In all his comedies except The Woman in the Moone^ Lyly writes 
neither in the usual jingling rhymes nor the infrequently used 
blank verse, but in prose. He shows the men of his day new 
possibilities in dialogue ; for though his artificial style prevents easy 
characterisation, it does not keep him from eff^ective repartee and a 
closer representation of the give and take of real conversation than 
was possible with the rhyming lines, or with blank verse as it was 
handled in his day. ^ Probably, however, the greatest importance 
of this play for the student of Elizabethan drama is the way it 
shows interest in a romantic story breaking through classic material 
and Renaissance expression, thus anticipating the romantic drama 



272 John Lyly 

of 1587. Clearly, then, the merits of Alexander and Campaspe are 
literary and historical, not dramatic. 

Lyly 's Development as a Dramatist. — That Lyly worked, how- 
ever, steadily toward more genuine drama becomes clear if one 
reads his plays in order. In all he shows classical influence by his 
choice of subject, or by constant allusion, but he is not a scholar 
in the sense of Jonson or Chapman. He is well read in certain 
authors — Ovid, particularly the Metamorphoses^ Plutarch, Pliny, 
perhaps Lucian ; he has at his tongue's end many stock Latin quo- 
tations, and delights in misquoting or paraphrasing for the sake of 
a pun, sure that the quick-witted courtiers will recognize the origi- 
nals. Classical in construction he certainly is not. His interest 
is to find a pretty love story which gives opportunities for dramatic 
surprises and complications, effective groupings, graceful dances, and 
dainty lyrics. He is fertile in finding interesting figures to bring 
upon the stage — the fairies of Endimion^ the fiddlers of Mother Bom- 
hie^ the shepherds of Lovers Metamorphosis. If one examines the only 
two plays of his which lack the contrasting comic under-plot, — 
Love's Metamorphosis.^ and The Woman in the Moone^ — it becomes 
clear that they are pastorals or masques. Even the other plays owe 
to their sub-plots the right to be called comedies. By choice of 
topics and by temperament, then, Lyly is a writer of masques. 

At first he developed his two plots side by side, as in Endimion, 
One is used simply to relieve the other, or to fill time-spaces nec- 
essary between incidents of the main plot. Later, he joins the two 
slightly by letting figures in the sub-plot refer to incidents of the 
main story. In Mother Bombie he brings the groups together form- 
ally two or three times, and closes the play with nearly all the 
characters on the stage. In his last comedy. The Woman in the 
Moone^ he discards contrasted plots, and tries to get his effects from 
one large group of figures. Even if his success in meeting his 
problem is not great, the mere recognition of it is significant. Yet 
it cannot be said that he ever becomes a good plotter, for he is 
always willing to bring in anywhere new people, new interests, or 
even, as in Mydas., to shift to a new plot midway. In Mother Bom- 
bie., when the climax of complication is reached in the meeting of 
the disguised Accius and Silena and their fathers, Lyly is unable to 



yohn Lyyly 273 

master the difficulties of the situation. He lets the two reveal 
themselves tamely, confusingly, before he has had anything like the 
potential fun out of the scene. Usually the plays ramble gently on 
till Lyly thinks the audience must have enough; then the deus ex 
machina appears, and all ends. Climax in closing he seems not to 
try for, but is content to end with a telling phrase. 

In characterization his work varies. In the allegories he wishes 
merely to suggest well-known figures ; distinct, final characteriza- 
tion would be out of place, even dangerous. In the pastoral- 
masques, the land of fantasy, the lines of characterization need not 
be sharply drawn. But even if one looks at Mother Bo?nbie and the 
sub-plots of the plays, one sees that though there is perhaps a slight 
gain in portraying the figures, the people are too often significant 
for the way in which they talk rather than for action or char- 
acterizing speech. When Lyly attempts strong presentation of 
crucial moments or pathos, he stammers, or is particularly con- 
ventional. 

As he develops, he modifies the eccentricities of his style. Nor is 
it probable that the passing of the popular enthusiasm for Euphuism 
is wholly responsible for this. He had the good sense to see the 
superiority of prose to verse as the expression of comedy, and he 
must have felt how much his rigidly artificial style cramped him. 
In Mother Bombie^ 1589—91, Euphuism is well-nigh gone. In its 
place we have a style in which characterized dialogue is more 
possible and more evident. In The Woman in the Moone the exi- 
gencies of verse are too much for Euphuism, and it practically 
disappears. 

Very slowly, then, Lyly was working toward a drama of simple 
characterizing dialogue, more unified, and at the same time more 
complex. Even as he worked, however, Kyd, Greene, and Mar- 
lowe swept by to accomplishment impossible for him under any 
conditions. 

His Place in English Comedy. — John Lyly is not merely, then, 
as has been too often suggested, a scholar " picking fancies out of 
books (with) little else to marvel at." He was keenly ahve to for- 
eign and domestic influences at work about him. His use of what 
other men offer foreshadows the marvellous assimilative power of 



274 John Lyly 

Shakespeare. He seems to retain and apply with freedom all the 
similes and illustrations that come in his way ; many are not to be 
hunted down except in out-of-the-way corners of the books best 
known to him. Only a man of poetic feeling would have cared to 
work in these allegories and pastorals. Humorous he is in the scenes 
of the pages. Here and there, as in some of the replies of Apelles 
to Alexander, and in the words of Parmenio on the rising sun (Act I, 
scene i), there is caustic irony. Lyly is a thinker, too, and a critic, 
as his frequent satire of existing social customs or follies shows. 
Now and then he is fearless •■, for instance, in his portrayal before 
the Queen of the artist's contempt for royal assumption of know- 
ledge (Act HI, scene 4), and in his comment on the impossibility of 
happy love between a subject and a monarch (Act IV, scene 4). His 
allegories show best his ingenuity and inventiveness. His mastery 
of involved phrasing is indubitable. 

Without doubt, however, his attitude toward his work is more 
that of the scholar than the poet or dramatist. His work is imita- 
tion of others who seem to him models, with the main attention on 
style. He has the inventiveness of the dramatist, but not his in- 
stinct for technique or recognition of the possibilities of a story and 
care in working them out. He never says a thing for himself if he. 
can find it anywhere in a recognized author. In this, however, he 
shared in the mood of Spenser and his group. Indeed, a little com- 
parison of Lyly with Spenser will show that, though in accomplish- 
ment he is far below the poet, he expresses in his comedies the 
historical influences, the existing intellectual conditions, and the 
literary aspirations which Spenser phrases in his early work. It is 
in poetic power, in imaginative sweep, that the two separate 
widely. 

Yet Lyly, drawing on what preceded and what surrounded him, 
did more than express the literary mood and desires of his day. 
Through him the lyric in the drama came to Dekker, Jonson, and 
Shakespeare, more dainty and more varied. He broke the way for 
later men to use prose as the means of expression for comedy. He 
gave them suggestions for clever dialogue. At a time of loose and 
hurried dramatic writing he showed that literary finish might well 
accompany such composition. His pages are the prototypes of the 



John Lyly 275 

boys and servants in Peele, Chapman, Jonson, and Shakespeare. In 
a small way he foreshadowed the comedy of manners. For as close 
a relationship between the drama and politics as we find in his alle- 
gories, we must look to the declining days of the Jacobean drama — 
to Middieton's Game of Chess. The romantic spirit found expres- 
sion in him, not in a drama of blood, but in pastorals and masques 
which look forward to the masques of Jonson, to Love's Labour's Lost^ 
Midsummer Night's Dream^ and Js Tou Like It. His influence on 
the highly sensitized mind of Shakespeare may be traced in many 
line§ and scenes. 

His vogue as a dramatist was short. By 1590 the boisterous, 
romantic drama, the often inchoate chronicle history, both frequently 
accompanied by scenes of would-be comic horse-play, engrossed 
public attention. The great period of experimentation with both old 
and crude forms was beginning. It is not surprising that when 
Lyly's plays were revived by the Chapel Children in 1597— 1600, 
they could not stand comparison with the work of Jonson, Dekker, 
Heywood, and other dramatists of the day, but were called " musty 
fopperies of antiquity." Their work, in bridging from the classic 
to romantic comedy, as the Drama of Blood bridged from Seneca to 
real tragedy, was done. Thereafter their main interest must be 
historical. 

Previous Editions and the Present Text. — The title of the first 
quarto (1584) is, "A moste excellent Comedie of Alexander, Cam- 
paspe, and Diogenes, played before the Queene's Maiestie on twelfe 
day at night, by her Maiestie's Children, and the Children of Paules. 
Imprinted at London, for Thomas Cadman, 1584." In the second 
edition, issued the same year by the same publisher, the title is 
changed to Campaspe., and the play is said to have been given " on 
new yeares day at night." The title, Campaspe.^ was retained in the 
third quarto, 1591, for William Broome, and in Edward Blount's 
duodecimo collective edition, 1632. (Manly.) Both, too, state that 
the play was giv^n " on twelfe-day at night." The headlines of 
all the quartos read Alexander and Campaspe ; of Blount, J tragical! 
Comedie of Alexander and Campaspe. Besides the quartos and Blount's 
Sixe Court Comedies there are these reprints : in Vol. II., Dodsley's 
Select Collection of Old Plays^ 1825; in Vol. I., John Lilly's Dra- 



276 yohn Lyly 

matic Works^ F. W. Fairholt, 1858 ; in Vol. II., Specimens of the Pre- 
Shaksperean Drama^ J. M. Manly, 1897. -^^ ^^ footnotes of the 
present edition the quartos are indicated by A. B. and C, the other 
editions by Bl. Do. F. and M. respectively. Blount's text, mainly, 
is followed. The variant readings of the quartos are given on the 
authority of Fairholt. 

George P. Baker. 



CAMPASPE 

Tlayed before the Qjueenes 

Maieftie on Twelfe 

day at Night : 

^y her M A I E S T I E S 
Children, and the Chil- 
dren oi Paules, 



l^ignette with 

motto : 

Mollia cum duris 



London, 

Printed by William Stansby, 

for Edward "Blount. 

1632. 



The Persons of the Play* 



Alexander, King of Macedon. 
Hephestion, his General. 
Clytus, 



fVarriors. 



Philosophers, 



Parmenio, 

Milectus, 

Phrygius, 

Melippus, Chamberlain to Alexander, 

Aristotle, 

Diogenes, 

Crisippus, 

Crates, 

Cleanthes, 

Anaxarchus, 

Crysus, 

Apelles, a Painter. 

Solinus, 

Sylvius, 

Perim, 

MiLO, 

Trico, 

Granicus, Servant to Plato. 
Manes, Servant to Diogenes. 
PsYLLus, Servant to Appelles. 
Page to Alexander. 
Citizens of Athens. 
Soldiers. 

ry, ' \ Theban Captives, 

Timoclea, j ^ 

Lais, a Courtezan. 



\ Citizens of Athens, 



r Sons of Sylvius. 



SCENE: ATHENS 



1 Do. first gives the list. The two companies were probably united for the Court perfor- 
mance. Thus the doubling of parts, common in the days of Elizabeth, was avoided. 



THE PROLOGUE AT 

the blacke Friers^ 

They that feare the stinging of waspes make fannes of peacocks 
tailes, whose spots are like eyes ; and Lepidus, which could not 
sleepe for the chattering of birds, set up a beast whose head was 
like a dragon ; ^ and wee, which stand in awe of report, are com- 
pelled to set before our owle Pallas shield,^ thinking by her vertue 5 
to cover the others deformity. It was a signe of famine to iEgypt 
when Nylus flowed lesse than twelve cubites or more than eighteene : 
and it may threaten despaire unto us if wee be lesse courteous than 
you looke for or more cumbersome. But, as Theseus, being prom- 
ised to be brought to an eagles nest, and, travailing all the day, 10 
found but a wren in a hedge, yet said, " This is a bird," so, we 
hope, if the shower* of our swelling mountaine seeme^ to bring 
forth some elephant, performe but a mouse, you will gently say, 
"This is a beast." Basill softly touched yieldeth a sweete sent, 
but chafed in the hand, a ranke savour : we feare, even so, that our 15 
labours slily ^ glanced on will breed some content, but examined to 

1 Before 1584 the Chapel Children acted publicly in a Blackfriars' inn-yard. See pp. cxi- 
cxxxv, Lyly's Endimion, Holt & Co. 

2 << Jt hapned during the time of his Triumvirat (Lepidus's), that in a certain place where 
he was, the magistrates attended him to his lodging environed as it were with woods on everie 
side : the next morrow Lepidus ... in bitter tearmes and minatorie words chid them for that they 
had laid him where he could not sleep a wink all night long, for the noise and singing that the 
birds made about him. They being thus checked and rebuked, devised against the next night 
to paint in a piece of parchment of great length a long Dragon or serpent, wherewith they com- 
passed the place where Lepidus should take his repose 5 the sight of which serpent thus painted 
so terrified the birds, that they . . . were altogether silent." — Pliny, Hist, of World^ Hol- 
land, 1635, XXXV. II. 

3 The favor of the Queen. Elizabeth, like Minerva, was called Pallas because of her 
celibacy. These words, with 11. 12, 13, p. 331, show that the Court performance came first. 

* The author, who presents the play. 

6 < Seeming ' ? 6 < Slightly ' } M. 

279 



28o The Prologue at the blacke Friers 

the proofe, small commendation. The haste in performing shall be 
our excuse. There went two nights to the begetting of Hercules ; 
feathers appeare not on the Phoenix under seven moneths ; and the 
mulberie is twelve in budding : but our travailes are like the hares, 20 
who at one time bringeth forth, nourisheth, and engendreth againe,i 
or like the brood of Trochilus,^ whose egges in the same moment 
that they are laid become birds. But, howsoever we finish our 
worke, we crave pardon if we offend in matter, and patience if wee 
transgresse in manners. Wee have mixed mirth with councell, and 25 
discipline with delight, thinking it not amisse in the same garden 
to sow pot-hearbes that wee set flowers. But wee hope, as harts 
that cast their homes, snakes their skins, eagles their bils, become 
more fresh for any other labour, so, our charge being shaken off, 
we shall be fit for greater matters. But least, like the Myndians, 30 
wee make our gates greater than our towne,^ and that our play runs 
out at the preface, we here conclude, — wishing that although there 
be in your precise judgements an universall mislike, yet we may 
enjoy by your wonted courtesies a generall silence. 

1 Holland, IX. 55 5 Topsell, Hht. of Four-footed Beasts, 1607, p. 267. 

2 A small, plover-like Nile bird. 

3 "Coming once to Myndos (Dorian colony on Carian coast), and seeing their Gates very 
large, and their City but small, [Diogenes] said, * You Men of Myndos, I advise you to shut 
up your Gates for fear your town should run out.' " — Diogenes Laertius, Li-ves of Pbi/osopbers, 
1696, VI. 425. 



The Prologue at the Court 

We are ashamed that our bird, which fluttereth by twilight, seem- 
ing a swan, should ^ bee proved a bat, set against the sun. But, as 
Jupiter placed Silenus asse among the starres, and Alcibiades cov- 
ered his pictures, being owles and apes, with a curtaine imbroidered 
with lions and eagles, so are we enforced upon a rough discourse to 5 
draw on a smooth excuse, resembling lapidaries who thinke to hide 
the cracke in a stone by setting it deepe in gold. The gods supped 
once with poore Baucis ; 2 the Persian kings sometimes shaved 
stickes ; our hope is Your Highnesse wil at this time lend an eare 
to an idle pastime. Appion, raising Homer from hell, demanded 10 
only who was his father j^ and we, calling Alexander from his grave, 
seeke only who was his love. Whatsoever wee present, we wish it 
may be thought the dancing of Agrippa^ his shadowes, who, in the 
moment they were scene, were of any shape one would conceive ; 
or Lynces,^ who, having a quicke sight to discerne, have a short 15 
memory to forget. With us it is like to fare as with these torches, 
which giving light to others consume themselves j and we shewing 
delight to others shame ourselves. 

1 ' Which, fluttering by twilight, seemeth a swan, should ' ? 

2 Ovid, Meta. III. 631. 

3 Holland, XXX; 2. 

* Henry Cornelius Agrippa (von Nettesheim), knight, doctor, and, by common reputa- 
tion, magician. Died 1535. On request he raised spirits — of the dead, Tully delivering his 
oration on Roscius 5 of the living, Henry VIII. and his lords hunting. — Godwin, Lives of 
Necromancers^ 1834, 324-25. 

^ Lynxes. <' It is thought that of all beastes they seeme most brightly, for the poets faine 
that their eie-sight pierceth through every solid body, although it be as thicke as a wall. . . 
Although they be long afflicted with hunger, yet when they eate their meate, if they heare any 
noise, or any other chaunce cause them to turne aboute from their meate, oute of the sight 
of it, they forgette their prey, notwithstanding their hunger, and go to seeke another booty." 
— Topsell, 489-492. 

281 



[Alexander and Campaspe] 




Actus primus. Scaena prima^ 

Enter Clitus and Parmenio ^ 

LTTUS. Parmenio, I cannot tell whether I should more 
commend in Alexanders victories courage, or courtesie, 
in the one being a resolution without feare, in the other 
a liberalitie above custome. Thebes is razed, the people 
not racked; towers throwne downe, bodies not thrust aside; a con- 5 
quest without conflict, and a cruell warre in a milde peace.^ 

Par. Clytus, it becommeth the sonne of Philip to bee none other 
than Alexander is ; therefore, seeing in the father a full perfection, 
who could have doubted in the sonne an excellency ? For, as the 
moone can borrow nothing else of the sunne but light,* so of a sire 10 
in whom nothing but vertue was what could the childe receive but 
singular ? ^ It is for turkies to staine each other, not for diamonds ; 
in the one to bee made a difference in goodnesse, in the other no 
comparison.^ 

^ Manly, the only editor of preceding texts, who attempts to place the scenes, prints here : 
"The audience-chamber of the palace. Clitus and Parmenio near the door. Timoclea and 
Campaspe are brought in later as prisoners. Alexander on the throne, attended by Hephestion." 
Do not lines 77-78 suggest that the scene takes place just outside the city walls, as Alexander 
returns from conquest 5 and that the characters enter one after another ? 

2 Plutarch (^Alexander') says Clitus was of *'a churlish nature, prowde and arrogant." 
See IV. 315, 357-59. Plutarch mentions Parmenio (^Alexander), IV. 354-56. 

3 Lyly softens Plutarch. See IV. 309-10. 

* ** Likewise that shee loseth her light (as the rest of the planets) by the brightnes of the 
Sun, when she approcheth neere. For borrowing wholly of him her light she doth shine." 
Holland, II. 9. S Old French singulier, excellent. F. 

6 'Staine' for excel. The sense is, ** It is for turquoises to excel one another, not for dia- 
monds, for among the latter there can be no comparison, since all are perfect." 

283 



284 A Tragi call Comedie of [act. i 

Clytus. You mistake mee, Parmenio, If, whilest I commend Alex- 15 
ander, you imagine I call Philip into question ; unlesse, happily, 
you conjecture (which none of judgement will conceive) that be- 
cause I like the fruit, therefore I heave at the tree, or, coveting to 
kisse the childe, I therefore goe about to poyson the teat. 

Par. I, but, Clytus, I perceive you are borne in the east, and 20 
never laugh but at the sunne rising ; ^ which argueth, though a dutie 
where you ought, yet no great devotion where you might. 

Clytus. We will make no controversie of that [of]^ which there 
ought to be no question ; onely this shall be the opinion of us both, 
that none was worthy to be the father of Alexander but Philip, nor 25 
any meete to be the sonne of PhiHp but Alexander. 

\_Enter Soldiers with Timoclea, Campaspe, other captives, and spot Is. '] m. 

Par. Soft, Clytus, behold the spoiles and prisoners ! A pleasant 
sight to us, because profit is joyned with honour j not much pain- 
full to them, because their captivitie is eased by mercie. 

Timo. [aside'\ . Fortune, thou didst never yet deceive vertue, 30 
because vertue never yet did trust fortune ! Sword and fire will 
never get spoyle where wisdome and fortitude beares sway. O 
Thebes, thy wals were raised by the sweetnesse of the harpe,^ but 
rased by the shrilnes of the trumpet ! Alexander had never come 
so neer the wals, had Epaminondas walkt about the wals ; and yet 35 
might the Thebanes have beene merry in their streets, if hee had 
beene to watch their towers. But destinie is seldome forseene, 
never prevented. We are here now captives, whose neckes are 
yoaked by force, but whose hearts cannot yeeld by death. — Come 
Campaspe and the rest, let us not be ashamed to cast our eyes on 40 
him on whom we feared not to cast our darts. 

Par. Madame, you need not doubt ; * it is Alexander that is the 
conquerour. 

Timo. Alexander hath overcome, not conquered. 

Par. To bring all under his subjection is to conquer. 45' 

1 Lyly refers both to the Persian sun-worshippers and the saying of Pompey, "More wor- 
ship the rising than the setting sun." 

* All preceding texts read 'that which.* 

8 Odyssey, 1 1. * Fear. 



I 



sc. i] Alexander and Campaspe 285 

Timo, He cannot subdue that which is divine. 

Par. Thebes was not. 

Timo. Vertue is. 

Clytus. Alexander, as hee tendreth i vertue, so hee will you. Hee 
drinketh not bloud, but thirsteth after honour; hee is greedie of 50 
victorie, but never satisfied with mercie ; in fight terrible, as becom- 
meth a captaine ; in conquest milde, as beseemeth a king ; in all 
things 2 than which nothing can be greater, hee is Alexander. 

Camp. Then, if it be such a thing to be Alexander, I hope it 
shall be no miserable thing to be a virgin. For, if hee save our 55 
honours, it is more than to restore our goods ; and rather doe I wish 
he preserve our fame than our lives : which if he doe, we will con- 
fesse there can be no greater thing than to be Alexander. 

[Enter Alexander and Hephestion.^] 

Alex. Clytus, are these prisoners ? Of whence these spoiles ? 

Clytus. Like your Majestie,^ they are prisoners, and of Thebes. 60 

Jlex.. Of what calling or reputation ? 

Clytus. I know not, but they seeme to be ladies of honour. 

Alex. I will know. Madam, of whence you are I know, but 
who, I cannot tell. 

Timo. Alexander, I am the sister of Theagines, who fought a 65 
battell with thy father, before the citie of Chieronie,^ where he died, 
I say — which none can gainsay — valiantly.^ 

Alex. Lady, there seeme in your words sparkes of your brothers 
deedes, but worser fortune in your life than his death ; but feare 
not, for you shall live without violence, enemies, or necessitie. But 70 
what are you, faire ladie, another sister to Theagines ? 

Camp. No sister to Theagines, but an humble hand-maid to 
Alexander, born of a meane parentage, but to extreme '* fortune. 

Alex. Well, ladies, for so your vertues shew you, whatsoever 
your births be, you shall be honorably entreated. Athens shall be 75 
your Thebes ; and you shall not be as abjects of warre, but as sub- 

1 Esteems, ^ In all things he is that than. 

8 Mentioned in North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV. 345, 353, 380. 

4 If it like. See p. 327. ^ Sic A. and B. 5 Bl. < Chyeronte.' 

6 For the dramatic story of Timoclea and the original of this speech see North's Plutarchy 
Nutt, IV. 310-11. '^ Worst possible. 



286 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. i 

jects to Alexander. Parmenio, conduct these honourable ladies into 
the citie ; charge the souldiers not so much as in words to offer 
them any offence; and let all wants bee supplied so farre forth as 
shall be necessarie for such persons and my prisoners. 8 

Exeunt Par me. [nig] ^ captivi. 

Hephestion,^ it resteth now that wee have as great care to governe 
in peace as conquer in warre, that, whilest armes cease, arts may 
flourish, and, joyning letters with launces, wee endevour to bee as 
good philosophers as souldiers, knowing it no lesse prayse to bee wise 
than commendable to be valiant. f>^ 

Hep. Your Majestic therein sheweth that you have as great ae- 
sire to rule as to subdue : and needs must that commonwealtn De 
fortunate whose captaine is a philosopher, and whose philosopner a 
captaine. txeunt. 

Actus primus. Scaena secunda^ 

\Enter\ Manes/ Granichus, Psyllus 

Manes, I serve in stead of a master a mouse,* whose nouse is a 
tub, whose dinner is a crust, and whose bed is a boord. 

Psyllus. Then art thou in a state of life which pnilosophers com- 
mend : a crum for thy supper, an hand for thy cup, and thy clothes 
for thy sheets ; for Natura pauc'is contenta. 5 

Gran. Manes, it is pitie so proper a man should be cast away 
upon a philosopher; but that Diogenes, that dogge,^ should have 

A Bl. prints this as the name of the speaker. 

2 The market-place. M. 

3 Diogenes brought to Athens an attendant of this natne, and dismissed him for the reasons 
given p. 296. 

* Lyly refers blindly to the following : " Seeing a mouse running over a Room and consider- 
ing with himself that it neither sought for a Bed, nor was affraid to be alone in the dark, nor 
desired any of our esteemed Dainties, he contrived a way to relieve his own Exigencies ; being 
the first, as some think, that folded in the Mantle, because his necessity obliged him to sleep 
in it." Li'ves of Philosophers^ VI., 402. 

6 The constant application of the epithet <' Dog," to Diogenes is historically correct. When 
Alexander first went to see the philosopher, he introduced himself thus : "I am Alexander, 
surnamed the Great." . To this Diogenes replied : ** And I am Diogenes, surnamed the Dog." 
The Athenians raised a pillar of Parian marble, surmounted with a dog, to his memory. 



Ii 



sc. ii] Alexander and Campaspe 287 

Manes, that dog-bolt,^ it grieveth nature and spiteth art: the one 
having found thee so dissolute — absolute ^ I would say — in bodie, 
the other so single — singular — in minde. lO 

Manes. Are you merry ? It is a signe by the trip of your 
tongue and the toyes ^ of your head that you have done that to day 
which I have not done these three dayes. 

Psyllus. Whats that ? 

Manes. Dined. 15 

Gran. I thinke Diogenes keepes but cold cheare. 

Manes. I would it were so ; but hee keepeth neither hot nor 
cold. 

Gran. What then, luke warme ? That made Manes runne from 
his master the last day.* 20 

Psyllus. Manes had reason, for his name foretold as much. 

Manes. My name ? How so, sir boy ? 

Psyllus. You know that it is called mons a movendo, because it 
stands still. 

Manes. Good. 25 

Psyllus. And thou art named Manes a manendo., because thou 
runnest away. 

Manes. Passing ^ reasons ! I did not run away, but retire. 

Psyllus. To a prison, because thou wouldst have leisure to con- 
template. 30 

Manes. I will prove that my bodie was immortall because it was 
in prison. 

Gran. As how ? 

Manes. Did your masters never teach you that the soule is im- 
mortall ? 35 

Gran. Yes. 

Manes. And the bodie is the prison of the soule. 

Gran. True. 

Manes. Why then, thus ^ to make my body immortall, I put it 
in prison.' 40 

Gran. Oh, bad ! 

1 Currish fellow. 2 Perfect. 3 Conceits. * Yesterday. 

5 Pun : surpassing, running by. 6 gi, prints fVby tberiy this ; F. thus. 

^ This Socratic method foreshadows Shakespeare's clowns and pages. 



288 A Tragi call Comedie of [act. i 

Psyllus. Excellent ill ! 

Manes. You may see how dull a fasting wit is : therefore, Psyllus, 
let us goe to supper with Granichus. Plato is the best fellow of all 
philosophers : give me him that reades ^ in the morning in the 45 
schoole, and at noone in the kitchen^ 

Psyllus. And me ! 

Gran. Ah, sirs, my master is a king in his parlour for the body, 
and a god in his studie for the soule. Among all his men he com- 
mendeth one that is an excellent musition ; then stand I by and clap 50 
another on the shoulder and say, "This is a passing good cooke." 

Manes. It is well done Granichus ; for give mee pleasure that 
goes in at the mouth, not the eare, — I had rather fill my guts 
than my braines. 

Psyllus. I serve Apelles, who feedeth mee as Diogenes doth 55 
Manes ; for at dinner the one preacheth abstinence, the other com- 
mendeth counterfaiting ^ : when I would eate meate, he paints a^ 
spit ; and when I thirst, " O," saith he, " is not this a faire pot ? " 
and pointes to a table* which containes the Banquet of the Gods, 
where are many dishes to feed the eye, but not to fill the gut. 60 

Gran. What doest thou then ? 

Psyllus. This doth hee then : bring in many examples that some 
have lived by savours ; and proveth that much easier it is to fat by ' 
colours ; and telles of birdes that have been fatted by painted grapes 
in winter, and how many have so fed their eyes with their mis- 65 
tresse picture that they never desired to take food, being glutted 
with the delight in their favours.^ Then doth he shew me counter- 
feites, — such as have surfeited, with their filthy and lothsome vom- 
ites J and the riotous^ Bacchanalls of the god Bacchus and his 
disorderly crew ; which are painted all to the life in his shop. To 70 
conclude, I fare hardly, though I goe richly, which maketh me 
when I should begin to shadow a ladies face, to draw a lambs head, 
and sometime to set to the body of a maid a shoulder of mutton, 
for Semper animus meus est in patinis.'^ 

1 * Redes,' teaches. 3 bi. omits a. ^ Countenances. 

2 Pun : painting, substituting false for real. ■* Picture. 
6 Preceding texts read: Andivitb the riotous ; •with printer's repetition. 
' Terence, Eunucbus, 8i6. 



sc. II] Alexander and Campaspe 289 

Manes, Thou art a god to mee ; for, could I see but a cookes 75 
shop painted, I would make mine eyes fatte as butter, for I have 
nought but sentences to fill my maw: as, Plures occidlt cratula quam 
gladius; Musa jejunantibus arnica; Repletion killeth delicatly; and an 
old saw of abstmence byi Socrates, — The belly is the heads grave. 
1 hus with sayings, not with meate, he maketh a gallimafray.2 80 

Gran. But how doest thou then live ? 

Manes. With fine jests, sweet ayre, and the dogs^ almes 

Gran. Well, for this time I will stanch thy gut, and among pots 
and platters thou shalt see what it is to serve Plato. 

Psyllus. For joy of it, Granichus, lets sing. 85 

Manes, My voice is as cleare in the evening as in the morning.^ 

(jran. An other commoditie of emptines ! 

SONG^ 

Gran. O for a bowle of fatt canary, 
Rich Palermo, sparkling sherry. 

Some nectar else ^ from Juno's daiery : qo 

O these draughts would make us merry ! 

Psil, O for a wench ! (I deale in faces, 
And in other dayntier things,) 

Tickled am I with her embraces, 

Fine dancing in such fairy ringes. q^ 

Ma. O for a plump fat leg of mutton, 
Veale, lambe, capon, pigge, and conney ! 7 
None is happy but a glutton ; 
None an asse but who wants money. 

Ch. Wines, indeed, and girls are good, lOO 

But brave victuals feast the bloud : 
For wenches, wine, and lusty cheere, 
Jove would leape down to surfet heere. {Exeunt.'] 

,.J/v^"-'^^-°^'^ editions omit ^^,- it appears in Dodsley, and a sixteenth-centun^ hand in- 
serted it m ink m a copy of the third edition, now in the Garrick collection. " M 

sin.in. 5 R, \ ^'°^'"t ' ^'^'^"^ '° "^^ ^^^ ^ff^^^ °" t^^ ^°i" of eating just before 

singmg. 5 Bl. first gave the songs. In Bl. 'Granicus' is below ' Song.' 6 Besides 7 Rabbit. 



290 A Tragical/ Comedie of [act. i 

Actus primus. Scaena tertia ^ 

\_Enter'] Melippus ^ 

Melip. I had never such adoe to warne schollers to come before 
a king! First I came to Crisippus, a tall, leane old mad man, 
willing him presently to appeare before Alexander. Hee stood star- 
ing on my face, neither moving his eyes nor his body. I urging 
him to give some answer, hee tooke up a booke, sate downe, and 5 
saide nothing. Melissa, his maide, told mee it was his manner, and 
that oftentimes shee was fain to thrust meat into his mouth, for that 
he would rather sterve than cease studie. Well, thought I, seeing 
bookish men are so blockish and great clearkes such simple courtiers, 
I will neither be partaker of their commons nor their commenda- lO 
tions. From thence I came to Plato and to Aristotle ^ and to divers 
other ; none refusing to come, saving an olde, obscure fellow, who, 
sitting in a tub turned towardes the sunne, read Greeke to a young 
boy. Him when I willed to appeare before Alexander, he answered, 
" If Alexander would faine see mee, let him come to mee ; if learne 15 
of me, let him come to mee ; whatsoever it be, let him come to 
me." "Why," said I, "he is a king." He answered, "Why, 
I am a philosopher." " Why, but he is Alexander." " I ; but 
I am Diogenes." I was halfe angry to see one so crooked in 
his shape to bee so crabbed in his sayings ; so, going my way, 20 
I said, " Thou shalt repent it, if thou comest not to Alexander." 
" Nay," smiling answered hee, " Alexander may repent it if hee 
come not to Diogenes : vertue must bee sought, not offered." 
And so, turning himselfe to his cell, hee grunted I know not what, 
like a pig under a tub. But I must bee gone, the philosophers are 25 
comming. Exit, 

1 Alexander's Palace. M. The first part might be there, but the portion with Diogenes 
belongs in some public place through which the philosophers pass, returning from the palace. 

2 Bl. adds here the names of all who enter during the scene. 

3 From Plutarch's account of Aristotle [Alexander, IV., 304-306, 363), Lyly borrows 
only the idea that Alexander, suspecting Aristotle of treasonable designs, withdrew some of his 
friendliness. 



sc. Ill] Alexander and Campaspe 291 

[^Enter Plato, Aristotle, Crysippus, Crates, Cleanthes, and 
Anaxarchus ^] 

Plato. It is a difficult controversie, Aristotle, and rather to be 
wondred at than beleeved, how natural causes should worke super- 
naturall effects. 

Aris. I do not so much stand upon the apparition is scene in the 30 
moone,2 neither the Demoniuin of Socrates, as that I cannot by 
naturall reason give any reason of the ebbing and flowing of the 
sea ; which makes me in the depth of my studies to crie out, O ens 
entium^ miserere met. 

Plato. Cleanthes and you attribute so much to nature by search- 35 
ing for things which are not to be found, that, whilest you studie a 
cause of your owne,^ you omitt the occasion it selfe. There is no 
man so savage in whom resteth not this divine particle : that there is 
an omnipotent, eternall, and divine mover, which may be called God. 

Cleant. I am of this minde : that that first mover, which you 40 
terme God, is the instrument of all the movings which we attribute 
to nature.* The earth, which is masse, swimmeth^ on the sea, 
seasons divided in themselves, fruits growing in themselves, the 
majestic of the skie, the whole firmament of the world, and what- 
soever else appeareth miraculous, — what man almost of meane45 
capacitie but can prove it natural ? 

Anax. These causes shall be debated at our philosophers feast, 
in which controversie I will take part with Aristotle that there is 
Natura naturans^ and yet not God. 

Cra. And I with Plato that there is Deus optimus maxtmus^ and 50 
not nature. 

\_Enter Alexander, attended by Hephestion, Parmenio, and Clytus] 

Aris. Here commeth Alexander. 

Alex. I see, Hephestion, that these philosophers are here attend- 
ing for us. 

1 For his relations with Alexander and Clitus, see North's Plutarch, IV., 359-360. 

2 See Prologue, Endimion. 3 A theoretical cause. 

* The preceding seven lines roughly sum up the contrasting opinions of Plato and Aristotle 
on physical matters. 

^ ' The earth which as a masse swimmeth,' or ' The earth, which is a masse, swimming ' } 
^ Nature that is a creative energy. 



292 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. i 

Hep. They are not philosophers if they know ^ not their duties. 55 

Alex. But I much mervaile Diogenes should bee so dogged. 

Hep. I doe not thinke but his excuse will be better than Melip- 
pus message. 

Alex. I will goe see him, Hephestion, because I long to see him 
that would command Alexander to come, to whom all the world is 60 
like to come. — Aristotle and the rest, sithence my comming from 
Thebes to Athens, from a place of conquest to a pallace of ^ quiet, 
I have resolved with my selfe in my court to have as many philoso- 
phers as I had in my camp souldiers. My court shal be a schoole 
wherein I wil have used as great doctrine ^ in peace as I did in 65 
warre discipline. 

Aris. We are all here ready to be commanded, and glad we are 
that we are commanded, for that nothing better becommeth kings 
than literature, which maketh them come as neare to the gods in 
wisdome as they doe in dignitie. 70 

Alex. It is so, Aristotle, but yet there is among you, yea and of 
your bringing up, that sought to destroy Alexander, — CaUstenes,* 
Aristotle, whose treasons against his prince shall not be borne out 
with the reasons of his philosophic. 

Aris. If ever mischief entred into the heart of Calistenes, let 75 
Calistenes suffer for it ; but that Aristotle ever imagined any such 
thing of Calistenes, Aristotle doth denie. 

Alex. Well, Aristotle, kindred may blinde thee, and affection me ; 
but in kings causes I will not stand to schollers arguments. This 
meeting shal be for a commandement that you all frequent my 80 
court, instruct the young with rules,^ confirme the olde with reasons : 
let your lives bee answerable to your learnings, least my proceedings 
be contrary to my promises. 

Hep. You said you would aske every one of them a question 
which yesternight none of us could answere.^ 85 

1 C. kneive. 2 gj omits of. 3 Instruction. 

* Alexander '* plainly shewed the ill will he bare unto Aristotle, for that Callisthenes had 
bene brought up with him, being his kinsman, and the son of Hero, Aristotle's neece." For 
the charges against the philosopher Callisthenes, see North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV., 359-363. 

* Bl. rulers, the quartos 'rules.' 

^ The foUowmg six questions and answers Lyly selects from nine in an interview of Alex- 
ander with ten wise men of India. North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV., 372-373. 



sc. Ill] Alexander and Campaspe 293 

Jlex. I will. Plato, of all beasts which is the subtilest ? 

Plato. That which man hitherto never knew. 

Jlex. Aristotle, how should a man be thought a god ? 

Aris. In doing a thing unpossible for a man. 

Jlex. Crisippus, which was first, the day or the night ? go 

Jris. The day, by a day. 

Jlex. Indeede, strange questions must have strange answers. 
Cleanthes, what say you, is life or death the stronger ? 

Cle. Life, that sufFereth so many troubles. 

Jlex. Crates, how long should a man live ? qc 

Crates. Till hee thinke it better to die than to live. 

Jlex. Anaxarchus, whether doth the sea or the earth bring forth 
most creatures ? 

Jnax. The earth, for the sea is but a part of the earth. 

Jlex. Hephestion, me thinkes they have answered all well, and loo 
in such questions I meane often to trie them. 

Hep. It is better to have in your court a wise man than in your 
ground a golden mine. Therefore would I leave war, to study 
wisdom, were I Alexander. 

Jlex. So would I, were I Hephestion. ^ But come, let us goe 105 
and give release, as I promised, to our Theban thralls.^ 

Exeunt [^Alexander y Hephestion ^ Parmenio, and Clytus,'\ 

Plato. Thou art fortunate, Aristotle, that Alexander is thy 
scholler. 

Jris. And all you happy that he is your soveraigne. 

Crisip. I could like the man well, if he could be contented to no 
bee but a man. 

Jris. He seeketh to draw neere to the gods in knowledge, not 
to be a god. [^Enter Diogenes.^] 

Plato. Let us question a little with Diogenes why he went not 

1 Alexander really spoke thus to Parmenio, but under very different circumstances. North's 
Plutarch, Nutt, IV., 332-333. 

2 Bl. thra/I. 

3 Neither the quartos nor Bl. mark this entrance. In the Garrick copy of C. a contem- 
porary of Lyly, W. Neile, noted it in ink. If Diogenes enters here, he goes to the farther 
side of the stage. The philosophers at once cross to him. Possibly he comes on at any time 
during the preceding dialogue, and going quietly to his part of the stage, waits till the philoso- 
phers see him and cross. 



4 



294 ^ Tragicall Comedie of [act. i 

with us to Alexander. Diogenes, thou didst forget thy duety, that 115 
thou wentst not with us to the king. 

Diog. And you your profession that went to the king. 

Plato. Thou takest as great pride to be peevish as others do glory 
to be vertuous. 

Diog. And thou as great honour, being a philosopher, to be 1 20 
thought court-like, as others shame, that be courtiers, to be accounted 
philosophers. 

Arts. These austere manners set aside, it is well knowne that 
thou didst counterfeite money .^ 

Diog. And thou thy manners, in that thou didst not counterfeite 1 25 
money.2 

Aris. Thou hast reason to contemne the court, being both in 
bodie and minde too crooked for a courtier. 

Diog. As good be crooked and indevour to make my selfe straight, 
from the court, as bee straight and learne to be crooked at the court, i^o 

Cris. Thou thinkest it a grace to be opposite against Alexander. 

Diog. And thou to be jump with Alexander. 

Anax. Let us goe, for in contemning him we shal better please 
him than in wondering at him. 

Aris. Plato, what doest thou thinke of Diogenes ? 135 

Plato. To be Socrates furious.^ Let us go. Exeunt Philosophi. 

\_Diogenes moves about with a lantern as if seeking something,!^ 

\_Enter~\ Psyllus, Manes, \_and'\ Granichus."* 

Psyllus. Behold, Manes, where thy master is, seeking either for 
bones for his dinner or pinnes for his sleeves. I will goe salute 
him. 

Manes. Doe so ; but mum, not a word that you saw Manes ! 140 
Gran. Then stay thou behinde, and I will goe with Psyllus. 

\_Manes stands apart."] 

1 See Li'ves of Philosophers, 1696, 401. 

2 <' You pretend to be better than you are, for you do not at heart object to counterfeiting," 
or, possibly, *' Since you do not gain money by counterfeiting, you live falsely, for you have no 
adequate means of support." 

8 Mad. 

* Editors, following BL, have made the second act begin here, but would Diogenes go out 
only to come on at once ? Bl. printed * Diogenes, Psyllus,' etc. To the stage direction M. i ' 

adds 'And Citizens.' 



I 



sc. Ill] Alexander and Campaspe 295 

Psyllus. All hayle, Diogenes, to your proper person. 

Diog. All hate to thy peevish conditions. 

Gran. O dogge ! 

Psyllus. What doest thou seeke for here ? 145 

Diog. For a man and a beast. 

Gran. That is easie without thy light to bee found : be not all 
these men ? ^ 

Diog. Called men. 

Gran. What beast is it thou lookest for? 1 50 

Diog. The beast my man Manes. 

Psyllus. Hee is a beast indeed that will serve thee. 

Diog. So is he that begat thee. 

Gran. What wouldest thou do, if thou shouldst find Manes .? 

Diog. Give him leave to doe as hee hath done before. 155 

Gran. What's that ? 

Diog. To run away. 

Psyllus. Why, hast thou no neede of Manes ? 

Diog. It were a shame for Diogenes to have neede of Manes 
and for Manes to have no neede of Diogenes.^ 160 

Gran. But put the case he were gone, wouldst thou entertaine 
any of us two ? 

Diog. Upon condition. 

Psyllus. What? 

Diog. That you should tell me wherefore any of you both were 165 
good. 

Gran. Why, I am a scholler and well seene in philosophy. 

Psyllus. And I a prentice and well seene in painting. 

Diog. Well then, Granichus, be thou a painter to amend thine 
ill face; and thou, Psyllus, a philosopher to correct thine evilliyo 
manners. But who is that ? Manes ? 

Manes \coming forward slowly^ . I care not who I were, so I were 
not Manes. 

Gran. You are taken tardie. 

Psyllus. Let us slip aside, Granichus, to see the salutation be- 175 
tweene Manes and his master. [.They draw back.'] 

1 This line is Lyiy's rather vague reference to the search of Diogenes for an honest man. 

2 Almost the words of Diogenes. See Li-ves of Philosophers, VI., 423. 



296 A Tragicall Comedie of [act. i. sc.m] 

Diog. Manes, thou knowest the last day ^ I threw away my dish, 
to drinke in my hand, because it was superfluous ; ^ now I am 
determined to put away my man and serve my selfe, quia non egeo 
tui vel te, 1 80 

Manes. Master, you know a while agoe I ran away ; so doe I 
meane to doe againe, quia scio tibi non esse argentum. 

Diog. I know I have no money, neither will I ^ have ever a man, 
tor I was resolved long sithence to put away both my slaves, — 
money and Manes. 185 

Manes. So was I determined to shake off* both my dogges, 
— hunger and Diogenes. 

Psyllus. O sweet consent^ betweene a crowde^ and a Jewes harpe ! 

Gran. Come, let us reconcile them. 

Psyllus. It shall not neede, for this is their use: now doe they 1 90 
dine one upon another. Exit Dwgenes. 

Gran, [coming forward with Psyllus~\. How now, Manes, art thou 
gone from thy master ? 

Manes. No, I did but now binde my selfe to him. 

Psyllus. Why, you were at mortall jarres ! .195 

Manes. In faith, no ; we brake a bitter jest one upon another. 

Gran. Why, thou art as dogged as he. 

Psyllus. My father knew them both little whelps. 

Manes. Well, I will hie me after my master. 

Gran. Why, is it supper time with Diogenes ? 200 

Manes. I, with him at all time when he hath meate. 

Psyllus. Why then, every man to his home ; and let us steale 
out againe anone. 

Gran. Where shall we meete ? 

Psyllus. Why at Alae ' vendibili suspensa hoedera non est opus. 20 5 

Manes. O Psyllus, haheo te loco parentis ; thou blessest me. 

Exeunt. 

1 Yesterday. 

2 " Seeing once a little Boy drinking Water out of the Hollow of his Hand, he took his 
little Dish out of his Scrip, and threw it away, saying : This little boy hath out-done me in 
frugality." — Li-ves of Philosophers, VI., 412. 

3 Bl. omits I. The quartos give it, 
* Preceding editions of. 

5 " In old musical treatises harmony is frequently termed a consent of instruments. " F. 
^ Fiddle. 7 Bl. ala. M. corrects. 



I 



ACT. II. sc. i] Alexander and Camp asp e 297 

Actus secundus.^ Scaena prima.^ 
Alexander, Hephestion, [and~\ Page.^ 

Alex. Stand aside, sir boy, till you be called. \_The Page stands 
aside.^ Hephestion, how doe you like the sweet face of Campaspe ? 

Hep. I cannot but commende the stout courage of Timoclea. 

Jlex. Without doubt Campaspe had some great man to her 
father. 5 

Hep. You know Timoclea had Theagines to her brother. 

Jlex. Timoclea still in thy mouth ! Art thou not in love ? 

Hep. Not I. 

Jlex. Not with Timoclea, you meane. Wherein you resemble 
the lapwing, who crieth most where her nest is not.* And so lo 
you lead me from espying your love with Campaspe, — you crie 
Timoclea. 

Hep. Could I as well subdue kingdomes as I can my thoughts, 
or were I as farre from ambition as I am from love, all the world 
would account mee as valiant in armes as I know my selfe moder-15 
ate in affection. 

Jlex. Is love a vice ? 

Hep. It is no veitue. 

Jlex. Well, now shalt thou see what small difference I make 
between Alexander and Hephestion. And, sith thou hast been 20 
alwaies partaker of my triumphes, thou shalt bee partaker of my 
torments. I love, Hephestion, I love! I love Campaspe, — a 
thing farre unfit for a Macedonian, for a king, for Alexander. 
Why hangest thou downe thy head, Hephestion, blushing to heare 
that which I am not ashamed to tell ? 25 

Hep. Might my words crave pardon and my counsell credit, I 
would both discharge the duetie of a subject, for so I am, and the 
office of a friend, for so I will. 

Jlex. Speake Hephestion ; for, whatsoever is spoken, Hephestion 
speaketh to Alexander. 30 

1 The Market-place. M. 3 Bl. added 'Diogenes, Apelles.' 

2 Preceding editions, Scana Secunda. * See Epistle Dedicatorie, Euphues and Ais England. 



298 A Tragi call Comedie of [act. n 

Hep. I cannot tell, Alexander, whether the report be more shame- 
full to be heard or the cause sorrowful to be beleeved ? • What, is 
the son of Philip, king of Macedon, become the subject of Cam- 
paspe, the captive of Thebes ? Is that minde whose greatnes the 
world could not containe drawn within the compasse of an idle, 35 
alluring eie ? Wil you handle the spindle with Hercules ^ when 
you should shake the speare with Achilles ? Is the warlike sound 
of drum and trump turned to the soft noise of lyre and lute, the 
neighing of barbed ^ steeds, whose lowdnes filled the aire with ter- 
rour and whose breathes dimmed the sun with smoake, converted to 40 
delicate tunes and amorous glances ? ^ O Alexander, that soft and 
yeelding minde should not bee in him whose hard and unconquerd 
heart hath made so many yeeld. But you love ! Ah griefe ! But 
whom ? Campaspe. Ah shame ! A maide, forsooth, unknowne, 
unnoble, — and who can tell whether immodest ? — whose eyes are 45 
framed by art to enamour, and whose heart was made by nature to 
enchant. I, but shee is beautifull. Yea, but not therefore chaste. 
I, but she is comely in all parts of the bodie. But shee may bee 
crooked in some part of the minde. I, but shee is wise. Yea, but 
she is a woman. Beautie is like the blackberry, which seemeth 50 
red when it is not ripe, — resembling precious stones that are pol- 
ished with honie,* which the smoother they looke, the sooner they 
breake. It is thought wonderfull among the sea-men, that mugill,^ 
of all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the bret,^ of all 
the slowest: and shall it not seeme monstrous to wise men that the 55 
heart of the greatest conquerour of the world should be found in the 
hands of the weakest creature of nature, — of a woman, of a captive ? 
Hermyns have faire skins, but foule livers ; sepulchres fresh colours, 

1 Ovid, Fasti y II. 305. 2 Horses covered vi'ith defensive armor. 

* Did this suggest : — 

*'Grim-visaged war hath smooth' d his wrinkled front; 
And now, — instead of mounting barbed steeds 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, — 
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber. 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute! " — Rich. III. I. I. Do. 

* " All precious stones in general are improved in brilliancy by being boiled in honey, 
Corsican honey more particularly." — Hist, of World^ XXXVII. 74. Bohn. 

^ Mullet. ^ Cornish for brill and turbot. 



sc. i] Alexander and Camp asp e 299 

but rotten bones ; women faire faces, but false hearts. Remember, 
Alexander, thou hast a campe to governe, not a chamber. Fall not 60 
from the armour of Mars to the armes of Venus, from the fierie 
assaults of warre to the maidenly skirmishes of love, from display- 
ing the eagle in thine ensigne to set downe the sparrow. I sigh, 
Alexander, that, where fortune could not conquer, folly should 
overcome. But behold all the perfection that may bee in Campaspe : 65 
a haire curling by nature, not art ; sweete alluring eyes ; a faire face 
made in despite of Venus j and a stately port in disdaine of Juno ; a 
wit apt to conceive and quicke to answere; a skinne as soft as silke 
and as smooth as jet ; a long white hand ; a fine little foot, — to 
conclude, all parts answerable to the best part. What of this ? 70 
Though she have heavenly gifts, vertue and beautie, is shee not of 
earthly metall, flesh and bloud ? You, Alexander, that would be a 
god, shew your selfe in this worse than a man, so soone to be both 
overseene and over-taken ^ in a woman, whose false teares know their 
true times, whose smooth words wound deeper than sharpe swords. 75 
There is no surfet so dangerous as that of honie, nor any poyson so 
deadly as that of love : in the one physicke cannot prevaile, nor in 
the other counsell. 

Alex. My case were light, Hephestion, and not worthy to be 
called love, if reason were a remedie, or sentences could salve that 80 
sense cannot conceive. Little do you know and therefore sleightly 
doe you regard the dead embers in a private person or live coales in 
a great prince, whose passions and thoughts doe as farre exceed 
others in extremitie as their callings doe in majestic. An eclipse in 
the sunne is more than the falling of a starre : none can conceive 85 
the torments of a king, unlesse he be a king, whose desires are not 
inferiour to their dignities. And then judge, Hephestion, if the 
agonies of love be dangerous in a subject, whether they be not more 
than deadly unto Alexander, whose deepe and not to bee conceived 
sighes cleave the heart in shivers, whose wounded thoughts can 90 
neither be expressed nor endured. Cease then, Hephestion, with 
arguments to seeke to refelP that which with their deitie the gods 
cannot resist ; and let this suffice to answere thee, — that it is a king 
that loveth, and Alexander, whose affections are not to bee meas- 

1 *' Deceived and intoxicated with unreasoning affection." F. 2 Refute. 



300 A Tragi call Comedie of [act. n 

ured by reason, being immortall, nor, I feare me, to be borne, being 95 
intolerable. 

Hep, I must needs yeeld, when neither reason nor counsell can 
bee heard. 

Alex. Yeeld, Hephestion, for Alexander doth love, and therefore 
must obtaine. lOO 

Hep. Suppose shee loves not you r Affection commeth not by 
appointment or birth ; and then as good hated as enforced. 

Alex. I am a king, and will command. 

Hep. You may, to yeeld to lust by force, but to consent to love 
by feare, you cannot. 1 05 

Alex. Why ? What is that which Alexander may not conquer 
as he list ? 

Hep. Why, that which you say the gods cannot resist, — 
love. 

Alex. I am a conquerour, shee a captive; I as fortunate as shee no 
faire : my greatnesse may answere her wants, and the gifts of my 
minde the modestie of hers. Is it not likely, then, that she should 
love ? Is it not reasonable ? 

Hep. You say that in love there is no reason ; and, therefore, 
there can be no likely hood. 1 1 

Alex. No more, Hephestion ! In this case I will use mine own 
counsell, and in all other thine advice : thou mayst be a good soul- 
dier, but never good lover. Call my page. [ The Page comes forward P^ 
Sirrah, goe presently to Apelles and will him to come to me without 
either delay or excuse. 120" 

Page. I goe. \^Exit.'\ 

Alex. In the meane season, to recreate my spirits, being so 
neere, wee will goe see Diogenes. And see where his tub is.^ 
\Crosses stage P^ Diogenes! 

Diog. Whocalleth? 125 

Alex. Alexander. How happened it that you would not come 
out of your tub to my palace ? ^ 

1 During the preceding dialogue Diogenes has probably come in with his tub. Going to a 
remote part of the stage, he has put it down and crawled into it. 

2 For the original of this scene and for some of the speeches, see North'' s Plutarch y IV. 
311-312, Nutt J see also Lives of Philosophers^ VI. 413. 



sc. i] Alexander and Campaspe 301 

Diog. Because it was as farre from my tub to your palace as 
from your palace to my tub. 

Alex. Why then, doest thou owe no reverence to kings? 130 

Diog, No. 

Alex. Why so ? 

Diog. Because they be no gods. 

Alex. They be gods of the earth. 

Diog. Yea, gods of earth. X35 

Alex. Plato is not of thy minde. 

Diog. I am glad of it. 

Alex. Why? 

Diog. Because I would have none of Diogenes minde but 
Diogenes. 140 

Alex. If Alexander have any thing that may pleasure Diogenes, 
let me know, and take it. 

Diog. Then take not from mee that you cannot give mee, — the 
light of the world. 

Alex. What doest thou want ? 14c 

Diog. Nothing that you have. 

Alex. I have the world at command. 

Diog. And I in contempt. 

Alex. Thou shalt live no longer than I will. 

Diog. But I shall die whether you will or no. Icq 

Alex. How should one learne to bee content ? 

Diog. Unlearne to covet. 

Alex. Hephestion, were I not Alexander, I would wish to bee 
Diogenes ! 

Hep. He is dogged, but discreet; I cannot tell how sharpe, 155 
with a kind of sweetnes; full of wit, yet too-too wayward. 

Alex. Diogenes, when I come this way againe, I will both see 
thee and confer with thee. 

Diog. Doe.^ \_Enter Apelles.] 

Alex. But here commeth Apelles. How now, Apelles, is Venus 160 
face yet finished ? 

Apel. Not yet ; beautie is not so soone shadowed whose perfec- 

1 Does Diogenes go out here, or crawl into his tub, to emerge when Crysus speaks to him, 
III. iii ? 



302 A Tragi call Comedie of [act. m 

tion commeth not within the compasse either of cunning or of 
colour. 

Alex. Well, let it rest unperfect ; and come you with mee where 1651 
I will shew you that finished by nature that you have beene trifling 
about by art. 

\^Exeunt Alexander, Hephestion, and Ape lies. 



Actus tertius. Scaena prima.^ 

\Enter'\ Apelles, Campaspe \_and a little behind them, Psyllus.] 

Apel. Ladie, I doubt whether there bee any colour so fresh that 
may shadow a countenance so faire. 

Camp. Sir, I had thought you had bin commanded to paint with 
your hand, not to glose ^ with your tongue ; but as I have heard, it 
is the hardest thing in painting to set downe a hard favour,^ which 5 
maketh you to despaire of my face; and then* shall you have as 
great thankes to spare your labour as to discredit your art. 

Apel. Mistris, you neither differ from your selfe nor your sexe ; for, 
knowing your owne perfection, you seeme to disprayse that which 
men most commend, drawing them by that meane into an ad- 10 
miration where, feeding themselves, they fall into an extasie ; your 
modestie being the cause of the one, and of the other your affections. 

Camp. I am too young to understand your speech, though old 
enough to withstand your devise. You have bin so long used to 
colours you can doe nothing but colour.^ 15 

Apel. Indeed the colours I see, I feare will alter the colour I 
have.^ But come, madam, will you draw neere ? — for Alexander 
will be here anon. Psyllus, stay you here at the window. If any 
enquire for mee, answere, Non lubet esse domi. 

Exeunt \_Apelles and Campaspe. '^'\ 

1 The house of Apelles : first inside, then in fi-ont. 

2 Flatter. * If you give up in despair. 

3 Homely face. 5 Flatter. 
6 Longing, caused by her beauty, will take the color from his face. 
' Bl. and later editors mark a new scene here. Stage direction in Bl. * Psyllus, Manes,' 



sc. i] Alexander and Campaspe 303 

Psyllus. It is alwayes my masters fashion when any faire gentle- 20 
woman is to be drawne within to make me to stay without. But 
if hee should paint Jupiter like a bull, Hke a swanne, like an eagle, 
then must Psyllus with one hand grind colours and with the other 
hold the candle. But let him alone ! The better hee shadowes 
her face, the more will he burne his owne heart. And now if any 25 
man could meet with Manes, who, I dare say, lookes as leane as if 
Diogenes dropped out of his nose.^ \_Enter Manes.] 

Manes, And here comes Manes, who hath as much meate in his 
maw as thou hast honestie in thy head. 

Psyllus. Then I hope thou art very hungry. 30 

Manes. They that know thee know that. 

Psyllus. But doest thou not remember that wee have certaine 
liquor to conferre withall. 

Manes. I, but I have businesse ; I must goe cry a thing. 

Psyllus. Why, what hast thou lost ? 35 

Manes. That which I never had, — my dinner ! 

Psyllus. Foule lubber, wilt thou crie for thy dinner ? 

Manes. I meane I must crie, — not as one would say " crie," 
but " crie," ^ that is, make a noyse. 

Psyllus. Why foole, that is all one; for, if thou crie, thou must 40 
needs make a noyse. 

Manes. Boy, thou art deceived : crie hath divers significations, 
and may be alluded to many things; knave but one,^ and can be 
applyed but to thee. 

Psyllus. Profound Manes ! 45 

Manes. Wee Cynickes are mad fellowes. Didst thou not finde 
I did quip thee ? 

Psyllus. No, verily ! Why, what's a quip ? 

Manes. Wee great girders call it a short saying of a sharpe wit, 
with a bitter sense in a sweet word. 50 

Psyllus. How canst thou thus divine, divide, define, dispute, and 
all on the sodaine ? 

^ As lean as Diogenes himself? Query: 'Dropped hinn ' ? The phrase suggests, ** As 
like as if he had been spit out of his mouth " for ** exact image." Kittredge. 

2 Manes mimics each sound. 

3 F. inserts to before one. 



304 A Tragi call Comedie of [act. m 

Manes. Wit will have his swing ! I am bewitcht, inspired, in- 
flamed, infected. 

Psyllus. Well then will I not tempt thy gybing spirit. 55 

Manes. Doe not, Psyllus^ for thy dull head will bee but a grind- 
stone for my quicke wit, which if thou whet with overthwarts,^ 
periisti^ actum est de te ! I have drawne bloud at ones braines with 
a bitter bob. 

Psyllus. Let me crosse my selfe ; for I die if I crosse thee. 60 

Manes. Let me doe my businesse. I my selfe am afraid lest 
my wit should waxe warme, and then must it needs consume some 
hard head with fine and prettie jests. I am sometimes in such a 
vaine that, for want of some dull pate to worke on, I begin to gird 
my selfe. 65 

Psyllus. The gods shield me from such a fine fellow, whose 
words melt wits like waxe. 

Manes. Well then, let us to the matter. In faith, my master 
meaneth to morrow to flie. 

Psyllus. It is a jest. 70 

Manes. Is it a jest to flie ? Shouldest thou flie so soone, thou 
shouldest repent it in earnest. 

Psyllus. Well, I will be the cryer. 
Manes and Psyllus {one after another). O ys ! O ys ! O ys I^ All 
manner of men, women, or children, that will come to morrow 75 
into the market place betweene the houres of nine and ten shall see 
Diogenes the Cynicke — flie.^ 

Psyllus. I doe not thinke he will flie. ■ 

Manes. Tush, say " flie ! " | 

Psyllus. Flie. 80 

Manes. Now let us goe ; for I will not see him againe till mid- 
night, — I have a backe way into his tub. 

Psyllus. Which way callest thou the backe way, when every way 
is open ? 

Manes. I meane to come in at his backe. 85 

Psyllus. Well, let us goe away, that we may returne speedily. 

Exeunt. 

1 Impudent replies. 2 Qycz. 

2 Psyllus, when he comes to *'flie," breaks off incredulous. Manes gives the word. 



I 



sc. ii] Alexander and Campaspe 305 

Actus tertius. Scaena secunda.-^ 

\_Enter] Apelles, Campaspe. 

Jpel. I shall never draw your eyes well, because they blinde 
mine.2 

Camp. Why then, paint mee without eyes, for I am blind.^ 

Jpel. Were you ever shadowed before of any ? 

Camp. No ; and would you could so now shadow me that I 5 
might not be perceived of any.* 

Jpel. It were pitie but that so absolute^ a face should furnish 
Venus temple amongst these pictures. 

Camp. What are these pictures ? 

Jpel. This is Laeda, whom Jove deceived in likenesse of a swan. 10 

Camp. A faire woman, but a foule deceit. 

Jpel. This is Alcmena, unto whom Jupiter came in shape of 
Amphitrion, her husband, and begate Hercules. 

Camp. A famous sonne, but an infamous fact. 

Jpel. Hee might doe it, because hee was a god. 15 

Camp. Nay, therefore it was evill done because he was a god. 

Jpel. This is Danae, into whose prison Jupiter drizled a golden 
showre, and obtained his desire. 

Camp. What gold can make one yeeld to desire ? 

Jpel. This is Europa, whom Jupiter ravished; this, Antiopa.^ 20 

Camp. Were all the gods like this Jupiter ? 

Jpel. There were many gods in this like Jupiter. 

Camp. I thinke in those dayes love was well ratified among men 
on earth when lust was so full authorised by the gods in Heaven. 

Jpel. Nay, you may imagine there were women passing amiable 25 
when there were gods exceeding amorous. 

1 Preceding editions, tertia. The Studio of Apelles. 

2 <* But her eyes ! 

How could he see to do them ? " M. of V. III. ii. 

3 Does Campaspe playfully close her eyes here ? 

* Pun : to paint and to hide. Campaspe is posing nude. 
5 Perfect. 

^ Lyly is thinking of the work of Arachne, who challenged Minerva to a trial of skill with 
the needle, and represented the amours of Jupiter named. Ovid., Meta. VI. i. 



3o6 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. m 

Camp. Were women never so faire, men would be false. 

Apel. Were women never so false, men would be fond. 

Camp. What counterfeit is this, Apelles ? 

Jpel. This is Venus, the goddesse of love. 30 

Camp. What, bee there also loving goddesses ? 

Apel. This is shee that hath power to command the very affec- 
tions of the heart. 

Camp. How is she hired, — by prayer, by sacrifice, or bribes ? 

Apel. By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes. 35 

Camp, What prayer ? 

Jpel. Vowes irrevocable. 

Camp. What sacrifice ? 

Jpel. Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling. 

Camp. What bribes ? 40 

Jpel. Roses and kisses. But were you never in love ? 

Camp. No ; nor love in me. 

Jpel. Then have you injuried many. 

Camp. How so ? 

Jpel. Because you have been loved of many. 4 

Camp. Flattered, perchance, of some. 

Jpel. It is not possible that a face so faire and a wit so sharpe, 
both without comparison, should not be apt to love. 

Camp. If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray dip i 
your pensill in colours and fall to that you must doe, not that you 50* 
would doe. 

Actus tertius. Scaena tertia.^ 
\_Entef\ Clytus \_and~\ Parmenio. 

Clytus. Parmenio, I cannot tell how it commeth to passe that in 
Alexander now a dayes there groweth an unpatient kind of life : 
in the morning he is melancholy, at noone solemne, at all times 
either more sowre or severe than hee was accustomed. 

Par. In kings causes I rather love to doubt ^ than conjecture, 

1 Preceding editions quarta. As M. notes, Apelles and Campaspe busy themselves with the 
picture at one side of the stage. A new scene is hardly necessary. Bl. ' Clytus, Parmenio, 
Alexander, Hephestion, Crysus, Diogenes, Apelles, Campaspe.' 2 Remain undecided. 



h 



sc. Ill] Alexander and Campaspe 307 

and thinke it better to bee ignorant than inquisitive : they have 
long eares and stretched armes ; ^ in whose heads suspition is a 
proofe, and to be accused is to be condemned. 

Clytus. Yet betv^^eene us there can bee no danger to find out the 
cause, for that there is no malice to withstand it. It may be an un- lO 
quenchable thirst of conquering maketh him unquiet ; it is not 
unlikely his long ease hath altered his humour ; that he should be 
in love, it is not ^ impossible. 

Par. In love, Clytus ? No, no ; it is as farre from his thought 
as treason in ours. He, whose ever-waking eye, whose never-tired 15 
heart, whose body patient of labour, whose mind unsatiable of 
victorie, hath alwayes beene noted, cannot so soone be melted into 
the weake conceits of love. Aristotle told him there were many 
worlds ; and that he hath not conquered one that gapeth for all 
galleth Alexander. But here he cometh. 20 

[Enter Alexander and Hephestion. ] 

Alex. Parmenio and Clytus, I would have you both readie to 
goe into Persia about an ambassage no lesse profitable to me than 
to your selves honourable. 

Clytus. Wee are readie at all commands, wishing nothing else 
but continually to be commanded. 25 

Alex. Well then, withdraw yourselves till I have further con- 
sidered of this matter. Exeunt Clytus and Parmenio. 

Now wee will see how Apelles goeth forward. I doubt mee that 
nature hath overcome art, and her countenance his cunning. 

Hep. You love, and therefore think any thing. 30 

Alex. But not so farre in love with Campaspe as with Bucepha- 
lus,^ if occasion serve either of conflict or* conquest. 

Hep. Occasion cannot want if will doe not. Behold all Persia 
swelling in the pride of their owne power, the Scythians carelesse 
what courage or fortune can do, the Egyptians dreaming in the 35 
southsayings of their augures and gaping over the smoake of their 
beasts intralls. All these, Alexander, are to be subdued, if that 

1 The modern »*long arm of the Law." * Bl. of; F, or of. M. corrects as in text. 

2 Bl. omits not ; A. gives it. 

3 North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV. 303-304, 351, 369-370. 



3o8 A Tragicall Comedie of [act. m 

world be not slipped out of your head which you have sworne to 
conquer with that hand. 

Alex, I confesse the labour's fit for Alexander, and yet recrea-40 
tion necessarie among so many assaults, bloudie wounds, intolerable 
troubles. Give me leave a little, if not to sit, yet to breath. And 
doubt not but Alexander can, when hee will, throw affections as 
farre from him as he can cowardise. But behold Diogenes talking 
with one at his tub.^ 45 

Crysus. One penny, Diogenes; I am a Cynicke* 

Diog. ,Hee made thee a begger that first gave thee any thing. 

Crysus. Why, if thou wilt give nothing, no bodie will give thee. 

Diog. I want nothing till the springs drie and the earth perish. 

Crysus. I gather for the gods. 50 

Diog. And I care not for those gods which want money. 

Crysus. Thou art not a right ^ Cynick, that wilt give nothing. 

Diog. Thou art not, that wilt begge any thing. 

Crysus [crossing to Alexander^ . Alexander ! King Alexander ! 
Give a poore Cynick a groat.^ 5 

Jlex. It is not for a king to give a groat. 

Crysus. Then give me a talent.* 

Alex. It is not for a begger to aske a talent. Away ! [Exit 
Crysus. Alexander crosses to the part of the stage opposite the tub of 
Diogenes where Apelles and Campaspe are.'\ 6 

Apelles ! ^ 

Apel. Here. 

Alex. Now, gentlewoman, doth not your beautie put the painter 
to his trumpe ? 

Camp. Yes, my lord, seeing so disordered a countenance, hee 
feareth hee shall shadow a deformed counterfeite. 65 

Alex. Would he could colour the life with the feature ! And 
mee thinketh, Apelles, were you as cunning as report saith you are, 

1 Diogenes enters before Crysus ; or, more probably, has been on the stage in his tub since 
II. I. See p. 301. 

2 In this and the next line, the speakers refer to the popular idea that true Cynics despised 
money. 

3 Fourpence. Often used for a very small sum. 

4 In Attica about $1000. 
fi As Alexander calls, he is supposed to enter the house of Apelles. See p. 306, note i. 



il 



sc. Ill] Alexander and Campaspe 309 

you may paint flowres as well with sweet smels as fresh colours, 
observing in your mixture such things as should draw neere to their 
savours. 70 

Apel. Your Majestic must know, it is no lesse hard to paint 
savours than vertues ; colours can neither speake nor thinke. 

Alex. Where doe you first begin when you draw any picture ? 

Jpel. The proportion of the face in just compasse as I can. 

Alex. I would begin with the eye, as a light to all the rest. 75 

Apel. If you will paint, as you are a king, Your Majestic may 
beginne where you please ; but as you would bee a painter, you 
must begin with the face. 

Alex. Aurelius ^ would in one houre colour foure faces. 

ApeL I marvaile in halfe an houre hee did not foure. 80 

Alex. Why, is it so easie ? 

Apel. No ; but he doth it so homely. 

Alex. When will you finish Campaspe ? 

Apel. Never finish ; for alwayes in absolute beauty there is 
somewhat above art. 85 

Alex. Why should not I by labour be as cunning as Apelles ? 

Apel. God shield you should have cause to be so cunning ^ as 
Apelles ! 

Alex. Me thinketh foure colours are sufficient to shadow any 
countenance -, and so it was in the time of Phydias.^ 90 

Apel. Then had men fewer fancies and women not so many 
favours.* For now, if the haire of her eyebrowes be blacke, yet 
must the haire of her head be yellow ; ^ the attire of her head must 
bee different from the habit of her bodie, else would the picture 
seeme like the blazon of ancient armory,^ not like the sweet delight 95 
of new-found amiablenesse." For, as in garden knots ^ diversitie 

1 Arellius ? Mentioned, Holland, XXXV. lo. No painter Aurelius is known. 

2 Pun : technical knowledge and manual skill, and guileful. Apelles thinks of his need to 
conceal his passion. 

3 For the original of this see Holland, XXXV. 7. 

* Looks, with something of the sense of attractions. 

5 At this time it was fashionable to dye the hair yellow in compliment to the natural color 
of the Queen's hair. F. 

6 A description simple because ancient armour lacked the varied markings of Elizabethan 
coats-of-arms. 

"^ Loveliness, * Ornamental arrangements of flower-beds, 



3IO A Tragicall Comedie of [act. m 

of odours make a more sweete savour, or as in musique divers 
strings cause a more delicate consent,^ so, in painting, the more 
colours, the better counterfeit, — observing black for a ground, and 
the rest for grace. lOO 

Alex, Lend me thy pensill, Apelles ; I will paint, and thou shalt 
judge. 

Jpel. Here. 

Alex. The coale ^ breakes. 

Jpel. You leane too hard. 10 

Jlex. Now it blackes not. 

Jpel. You leane too soft. 

Alex. This is awrie. 

Jpel. Your eye goeth not with your hand. 

Jlex. Now it is worse. 1 1 

Jpel. Your hand goeth not with your minde. 

Jlex. Nay, if all be too hard or soft, — so many rules and 
regards that ones hand, ones eye, ones minde must all draw 
together, — I had rather bee setting of a battell than blotting of 
a boord.2 But how have I done here? 115 

Jpel. Like a king. 

Jlex. I thinke so ; but nothing more unlike a painter.* Well, 
Apelles, Campaspe is finished as I wish. Dismisse her, and bring 
presently her counterfeit after me. 

JpeL I will. 120 

Jlex. [as he crosses the stage.'] Now, Hephestion, doth not this 
matter cotton as I would ? ^ Campaspe looketh pleasantly ; libertie 
will encrease her beautie, and my love shall advance her honour. 

Hep. I will not contrarie your Majestic ; for time must weare 
out that love hath wrought, and reason weane what appetite nursed. 125 
[ Campaspe passes on her way to the farther door. ] 

Jlex. How stately shee passeth by, yet how soberly, a sweete 
consent in her countenance, with a chaste disdaine, desire mingled 

1 Harmony. 

2 The charcoal with which Alexander is drawing. 

3 The old pictures were painted on wooden panels. 
* For the suggestion for this scene, see Holland, XXXV. lo. 
5 Go as I wish. 



sc. mi] Mlexander and Campaspe 3 1 1 

with coynesse, and — I cannot tell how to terme it— a curst, yeeld- 
ing modesty ! ^ 

Hep. Let her passe. 13° 

Alex. So shee shall for the fairest on the earth ! 

Exeunt \_Alexander and Hephestion at one side of the stage y Ape lies at the other.'] 



Actus tertius. Scaena quarta.^ 
[Enter'] Psyllus \_and] Manes. 

Psyllus. I shall be hanged for tarrying so long. 

Manes. I pray God my master be not flowne before I come ! 

\_Enter Ape lies.] 

Psyllus. Away, Manes, my master doth come. \_Exit Manes.] 

Apel. Where have you beene all this while ? 

Psyllus. Nowhere but here. 5 

Apel. Who was here sithens my comming .? 

Psyllus. Nobodie. 

Apel. Ungracious wag, I perceive you have beene a loytering ! 
Was Alexander nobodie ? 

Psyllus. He was a king, I meant no mean bodie. lO 

Apel. I will cudgell your bodie for it, and then will I say it was 
no bodie, because it was no honest bodie. Away, in ! Exit Psyllus, 
Unfortunate Apelles, and therefore unfortunate because Apelles ! 
Hast thou by drawing her beautie brought to passe that thou canst 
scarce draw thine owne breath ? And by so much the more hast 15 
thou increased thy care by how much the more hast thou ^ shewed 
thy cunning ? Was it not sufficient to behold the fire and warme 
thee, but with Satyrus thou must kisse the fire and burne thee ? 
O Campaspe, Campaspe! Art must yeeld to nature, reason to 
appetite, wisdome to affection ! Could Pigmalion entreate by prayer 20 

1 <' Modesty tempered in yielding by a contrasting emotion." ^^ 

2 Preceding editions quinta. Before the house of Apelles. Is a division needed ? Apelles 
might remain when Alexander and Hephestion leave, and just before Psyllus cries " Away, 
Manes," see his page and move toward him. Bl. ' Psyllus, Manes, Apelles.' 

3 Bl. Hast tbou bait. F. and M. strike out the first hast. Is it not more likely that the 
second is the mistake ? 



312 A Tragicall Comedie of [act. m 

to have his ivory turned into flesh, and cannot Apelles obtaine by 
plaints to have the picture of his love changed to life ? Is painting 
so farre inferiour to carving ? Or dost thou, Venus, more delight 
to bee hewed with chizels then shadowed with colours ? What 
Pigmalion, or what Pyrgoteles, or what Lysippus is hee,i that ever 25 
made thy face so faire or spread thy fame so farre as I ? Unlesse, 
Venus, in this thou enviest mine art, that in colouring my sweet 
Campaspe I have left no place by cunning to make thee so ami- 
able.2 But, alas, shee is the paramour to a prince ! Alexander, the 
monarch of the earth, hath both her body and affection. For what 30 
is it that kings cannot obtaine by prayers, threats, and promises ? 
Will not shee thinke it better to sit under a cloth of estate ^ like a 
queene than in a poore shop Hke a huswife, and esteeme it sweeter 
to be the concubine of the lord of the world than spouse to a painter 
in Athens ? Yes, yes, Apelles, thou maist swimme against the 35 
streame with the crab, and feede against the winde with the deere, 
and peck against the Steele with the cockatrice : ^ starres are to be 
looked at, not reached at ; princes to be yeelded unto, not con- 
tended with ; Campaspe to be honoured, not obtained ; to be painted, 
not possessed of thee. O faire face ! O unhappy hand ! And why 40 
didst thou drawe it — so faire a face ? O beautiful! countenance, 
the expres image of Venus, but somwhat fresher, the only patterne 
of that eternitie which Jupiter dreaming, asleepe, could not con- 
ceive againe waking 1 Blush, Venus, for I am ashamed to ende 
thee ! Now must I paint things unpossible for mine art but agree- 45 
able with my affections, — deepe and hollow sighes, sad and melan- 
cholie thoughtes, woundes and slaughters of conceits, a life posting 
to death, a death galloping from life, a wavering constancie, an un- 
setled resolution, and what not, Apelles ? And what but Apelles ? ^ 

1 '< Alexander streightly forbad by express edict, that no man should draw his portrait in col- 
ours but Apelles the painter : that none should engrave his personage but Pyrgoteles, the graver : 
and last of all, that no workman should cast his image in brasse but Lysippus a founder," 
Holland, VII. i. . 

2 Apelles addresses here and in 1. 44 a picture of Venus, which he really left unfinished. Hol- 
land, XXXV. II. 

^ Canopy. 

4 Basilisk, Holland, VIII. 21. 

5 *< Do I siy paint what not (what is not) Apelles ? What are all these — sighs, wounds, 
etc., but Apelles himself?" 









sc. iiii] Alexander and Campaspe 3 1 3 

But as they that are shaken with a feaver are to be warmed with 50 
cloathes, not groanes, and as he that melteth in a consumption is 
to be recured by colices,^ not conceits, so the feeding canker of my 
care, the never-dying worme of my heart, is to be killed by coun- 
sell, not cries, by applying of remedies, not by replying of reasons. 
And sith in cases desperate there must be used medicines that are 55 
extreame, I will hazard that little life that is left, to restore the 
greater part that is lost ; and this shall be my first practise, — for 
wit must worke where authoritie is not, — as soone as Alexander 
hath viewed this portraiture, I will by devise give it a blemish, that 
by that meanes she may come againe to my shop ; and then as 60 
good it were to utter my love and die with deniall as conceale it 
and live in dispaire. 

Song by Apelles. 

Cupid and my Campaspe playd 

At cardes for kisses ; Cupid payd. 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 65 

His mothers doves, and teeme of sparows ; 

Looses them, too. Then, downe he throwes 

The corrall of his lippe, the rose 

Growing on's cheek, — but none knows how, — 

With these, the cristall of his brow, 70 

And then the dimple of his chinne; 

All these did my Campaspe winne. 

At last, hee set her both his eyes; 

Shee won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O love ! has shee done this to thee ? 75 

What shall, alas, become of mee ? \^Exit Apelles.'\ 

1 Cullisesy strengthening jellies. 



314 -^ Tragicall Comedie of [act. mi 

Actus quartus. Scaena prima.^ 
\^Enter\ Solinus, Psyllus, \_and^ Granichus.* 

Sol. This is the place, the day, the time, that Diogenes hath 
appointed to flie. 

Psyllus. I will not loose the flight of so faire a foule as Diogenes 
is though my master cudgell my no body as he threatned. 

Gran. What, Psyllus, will the beast wag his wings to day ? 5 

\_Enter Manes.'\ 

Psyllus. Wee shall heare ; for here commeth Manes. Manes, 
will it be ? 

Manes. Be ? He were best be as cunning as a bee, or else 
shortly he will not bee at all. 

Gran. How is hee furnished to flie ? Hath he feathers ? 10 

Manes. Thou art an asse! Capons, geese, and owles, have 
feathers. He hath found Dedalus old waxen wings,^ and hath 
beene peecing them this moneth, he is so broad in the shoulders. 
O, you shall see him cut the ayre even like a tortoys ! 

Sol. Me thinkes so wise a man should not bee so mad; his body 15 
must needs be too heavie. 

Manes. Why, hee hath eaten nothing this seven night but corke 
and feathers. 

Psyllus [aside'\ . Touch him,* Manes. 

Manes. Hee is so light that hee can scarce keepe him from flying 20 
at midnight. Populus t?itrat. 

Manes. See they begin to flocke, and, behold, my master bustels • 
himselfe to flie. \They draw nearer the tub.'] 

Diog.^ You wicked and bewitched Athenians, whose bodies make 
the earth to groane, and whose breathes infect the ayre with stench, 25 
come ye to see Diogenes flie ? Diogenes commeth to see you sinke. 
Yea,^ call me dogge ! So I am, for I long to gnaw the bons in 
your skins. Yee tearme me an hater of men ! No, I am a hater 

1 The market-place. M. 2 b1. adds < Manes, Diogenes, Populus.' 

3 Ovid, Meta. VIII. * Guy him. 

^ Diogenes has probably been in his tub since his dialogue with Crysus, p. 308. 

® M. suggests ' Yee.' See next line. 



sc. i] Alexander and Campaspe 3 1 5 

of your manners. Your lives, dissolute, not fearing death, will 
prove your deaths desperat, not hoping for life. What do you else 30 
in Athens but sleepe in the day and surfeit in the night, — backe-gods 
in the morning with pride, in the evening belly-gods with gluttony ! 
You flatter kings, and call them gods. Speak truth of your selves 
and confesse you are divels ! From the bee you have taken, not 
the honey, but the wax, to make your religion, framing it to the 35 
time, not to the truth. Your filthy lust you colour under a courtly 
colour of love, injuries abroad under the title of policies at home ; 
and secret malice creepeth under the name of publike justice. You 
have caused Alexander to drie up springs and plant vines, to sow 
rocket and weed endifF,i to sheare sheepe, and shrine 2 foxes. All 40 
conscience is sealed ^ at Athens : swearing commeth of a hot met- 
tle; lying of a quick wit; flattery of a flowing tongue; undecent 
talke of a merry disposition. All things are lawfull at Athens: 
either you think there are no gods, or I must think ye are no men. 
You build as though you should live for ever and surfeit as though 45 
you should die to morrowe. None teacheth true philosophie but 
Aristotle, because hee was the kings schoole-master ! O times ! 
O men ! O corruption in manners ! Remember that greene grasse 
must turne to drie hay. When you sleepe, you are not sure to wake ; 
and when you rise, not certaine to lie downe. Looke you never so 50 
high, your heads must lie level with your feet. Thus have I flowne 
over* your disordered lives ; and if you will not amend your man- 
ners, I will studie to flie further from you, that I may bee neerer to 
honestie.^ 

Sol. Thou ravest, Diogenes, for thy life is different from thy 55 
words. Did not I see thee come out of a brothell house ? Was it 
not a shame ? 

Dlog. It was no shame to goe out, but a shame to goe in. 

Gran. It were a good deede. Manes, to beate thy master. 

Manes. You were as good eate my master. 60 

One of the People. Hast thou made us all fooles, and wilt thou not 
flie .? 

1 Sow the inedible and weed out the edible. 2 shut up as if precious. 

3 " In falconry %ealed means blinded." Do. * Railed at. 

^ For conduct of Diogenes similar to this scene see L'l'ves, of Philosophers, VI. 405 . 



3 1 6 A Tragicall Comedie of [act. mi 

Diog. I tell thee, unlesse thou be honest, I will flie.^ 

People. Dog, dog, take a bone ! 

Diog. Thy father need feare no dogs, but dogs thy father.^ 65 

People. We will tell Alexander that thou reprovest him behinde 
his back. 

Diog. And I will tell him that you flatter him before his face. 

People. Wee will cause all the boyes in the streete to hisse at thee. 

Diog. Indeede, I thinke the Athenians have their children readie 70 
for any vice, because they bee Athenians. 

\_Exeunt Populus and Solinus,'\ 

Manes. Why, master, meane you not to flie ? 

Diog. No, Manes, not without wings. 

Manes. Everybody will account you a lyar. 

Diog. No, I warrant you, for I will alwayes say the Athenians 75 
are mischevous. 

Psyllus. I care not ; it was sport enough for mee to see these old 
huddles^ hit home. 

Gran. Nor I. 

Psyllus. Come, let us goe ; and hereafter when I meane to rayle 80 
upon any body openly, it shall bee given out, I will flie. Exeunt, 

Actus quartus. Scaena secunda.* 

\_Ente7-'\ Campaspe.^ 

Camp. sola. Campaspe, it is hard to judge whether thy choyce 
be more unwise or thy chance unfortunate. Doest thou preferre 
— but stay, utter not that in wordes which maketh thine eares to 
glow with thoughts. Tush, better thy tongue wagge than thy 
heart breake ! Hath a painter crept further into thy minde than a 5 
prince ; — Apelles, than Alexander ? Fond wench, the basenes of 

1 Diogenes refers to 11. 50-54, p. 315. Throughout Diogenes is very like a Cynic as 
described in Lucian's *' Sale of the Philosophers." 

2 Diogenes, thinking of himself as older than most of the crowd and wiser than any, names 
himself, apparently, in * thy father. ' * ' Diogenes need fear no curs like you, but you need fear 
a rating from me." 

^ Decrepit persons. 

* A room in the palace. M. Why not the house of Apelles, into which the painter and 
Campaspe go after the last lines of the scene .-• ^ Bl. * Campaspe, Apelles.' 



sc. ii] Alexander and Campaspe 3 1 7 

thy minde bewraies the meannesse of thy birth. But, alas, affec- 
tion is a fire which kindleth as well ^ in the bramble as in the oake, 
and catcheth hold where it first lighteth, not where it may best 
burne. Larkes, that mount aloft in the ayre, build their neasts lo 
below in the earth ; and women that cast their eyes upon kings may 
place their hearts upon vassals. A needle will become thy fingers 
better than a lute, and a distaffe is fitter for thy hand than a scepter. 
Antes live safely till they have gotten wings, and juniper is not 
blowne up till it hath gotten an high top : the meane estate is with- 15 
out care as long as it continueth without pride. \Enter ApellesA 
But here commeth Apelles, in whom I would there were the like 
affection. 

Jpel. Gentlewoman, the misfortune I had with your picture will 
put you to some paines to sit againe to be painted. 20 

Camp, It is small paines for mee to sit still, but infinite for you 
to draw still. 

Apel. No, madame ; to painte Venus was a pleasure, but to 
shadow the sweete face of Campaspe, it is a heaven ! 

Camp. If your tongue were made of the same flesh that your 25 
heart is, your words would bee as your thoughts are ; but, such a 
common thing it is amongst you to commend that oftentimes for 
fashion sake you call them beautifull whom you know blacke. 

Apel. What might men doe to be beleeved .? 

Camp. Whet their tongue on their hearts. 30 

Jpel. So they doe, and speake as they thinke. 

Camp. I would they did ! 

Apel. I would they did not ! 

Camp. Why, would you have them dissemble ? 

Jpel. Not in love, but their love.2 But will you give mee leave 35 
to aske you a question without offence ? 

Camp. So that you will answere mee another without excuse. 

JpeL Whom doe you love best in the world ? 

Camp. He that made me last in the world. 

Jpel. That was a god. 40 

1 Bl., 'aswelL' 

2 << Apelles would have no dissembling in real love, but only in the simulated love he 
despises." F. 



3 1 8 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. mi 

Camp. I had thought it had beene a man. But whom doe you 
honour most, Apelles ? 

Apel. The thing that is likest you, Campaspe. 

Camp, My picture ? 

ApeL I dare not venture upon your person. But come, let us 45 
go in 5 for Alexander will thinke it long till we returne. Exeunt. 

Actus quartus. Scaena tertia.^ 
\_Ente7-'\ Clytus \_and^ Parmenio. 

Clytus. We heare nothing of our embassage, — a colour 2 belike 
to bleare our eyes or tickle our eares or inflame our hearts. But 
what doth Alexander in the meane season but use for tantara^ — W, 
/^, la ; 2 for his hard couch, downe beds ; for his handfuU of water, 
his standing-cup of wine ? * 5 

Par. Clytus, I mislike this new delicacie and pleasing peace, 
for what else do we see now than a kind of softnes in every mans 
minde : bees to make their hives in souldiers helmets ;5 our steeds 
furnished with footclothes of gold, insteede of sadles of Steele ; 
more time to be required to scowre the rust of our weapons than 10 
there was wont to be in subduing the countries of our enemies. 
Sithence Alexander fell from his hard armour to his soft robes, 
behold the face of his court: youths that were wont to carry 
devises of victory in their shields engrave now posies of love in 
their ringes ; they that were accustomed on trotting horses to 15 
charge the enemie with a launce, now in easie coches ride up and 
down to court ladies ; in steade of sword and target to hazard their 
lives, use pen and paper to paint their loves ; yea, such a feare and 
faintnesse is growne in court that they wish rather to heare the 
blowing of a home to hunt than the sound of a trumpet to fight. 20 

1 The palace. M. 2 Pretext. 

3 '< For the sound of the war trumpet, the voice of the singer." F. 

* A large and usually ornamental drinking cup, made especially for the dresser or sideboard. 
The chief guest at an entertainment or the presiding dignitary was served from it. 

5 An engraving in Alciati's Emblems, representing bees swarming into the face-guard of a 
helmet probably provided this simile. F 



sc. iiii] Alexander and Campaspe 3 1 9 

O Philip, wert thou alive to see this alteration, — thy men turned 
to women, thy souldiers to lovers, gloves worne in velvet caps,^ in 
stead of plumes in graven helmets, — thou wouldest either dye 
among them for sorrow or counfound ^ them for anger. 

Clytus. Cease, Parmenio, least in speaking what becommeth thee 25 
not, thou feele what liketh thee not: truth is never with out a 
scracht face; whose tongue although it cannot be cut out, yet 
must it be tied up. 

Par. It grieveth me not a little for Hephestion, who thirsteth 
for honour, not ease ; but such is his fortune and neernesse in 30 
friendship to Alexander that hee must lay a pillow under his head 
when hee would put a target in his hand. But let us draw in, to 
see how well it becomes them to tread the measures in a daunce^ 
that were wont to set the order for a march. Exeunt, 



Actus quartus. Scaena quarta.* 
[^Enter~\ Apelles [and~\ Campaspe. 

Apel. I have now, Campaspe, almost made an ende. 

Camp. You told mee, Apelles, you would never end. 

Apel. Never end my love, for it shal be ^ eternall. 

Camp. That is, neither to have beginning nor ending. 

Apel. You are disposed to mistake ; I hope you do not mistrust. 5 

Camp. What will you say, if Alexander perceive your love ? 

Apel. I will say it is no treason to love. 

Camp. But how if hee will not suffer thee to see my person ? 

Apel. Then will I gaze continually on thy picture. 

Camp. That will not feede thy heart. 10 

Apel. Yet shall it fill mine eye. Besides, the sweet thoughts, 
the sure hopes, thy protested faith, wil cause me to embrace thy 
shadow continually in mine armes, of the which by strong imagina- 
tion I will make a substance. 

1 Gloves were worn in the hat for three purposes, — as the favor of a mistress, the memorial 
of a friend, and as a mark to challenge an enemy. 

2 Destroy. ^ To dance in a slow and stately fashion. 
4 Studio of Apelles. * Bl., one word. 



320 A Tragicall Comedie of [act. mi. sc. mi] 

Camp. Wei, I must be gone. But this assure your selfe, that I 15 
had rather be in thy shop grinding colours than in Alexander's 
court following higher fortunes. \^As she crosses the stage^'^ Foolish 
wench, what hast thou done ? That, alas, which cannot be undone ; 
and therefore I feare me undone. But content is such a life ; I 
care not for aboundance. O Apelles, thy love commeth from the 20 
heart but Alexander's from the mouth ! The love of kings is like 
the blowing of winds, which whistle sometimes gently among the 
leaves and straight waies turne the trees up by the rootes ; or fire, 
which warmeth afarre off, and burneth neere hand ; or the sea, 
which maketh men hoise their sailes in a flattering calme, and to 25 
cut their mastes in a rough storme. They place affection by times, 
by policy, by appoyntment. If they frowne, who dares call them 
unconstant ; if bewray secrets, who will tearme them untrue ; if 
fall to other loves, who trembles not, if hee call them unfaithfull ? 
In kings there can bee no love but to queenes ; for as neere must 30 
they meete in majestic as they doe in affection. It is requisite to 
stand aloofe from kings love, Jove, and lightening. Exit. 

Apel?' Now, Apelles, gather thy wits together. Campaspe is no 
lesse wise then faire ; thy selfe must be no lesse cunning then faith- 
full.2 It is no small matter to be rivall with Alexander. 35 

\_E71ter Page of Alexander.] 

Page. Apelles, you must come away quickly with the picture 

the king thinketh that now you have painted it, you play with it. 

Apel. If I would play with pictures, I^have enough at home. 

Page. None, perhaps, you like so well. 

Apel. It may be I have painted none so well. 40 

Page. I have knowen manv fairer faces. 

Apel. And I many better boyes. Exeunt. 

1 Preceding editions, following BI., read 'Campaspe alone.' It is much more natural to 
suppose that while she is crossing the stage, Apelles lingers on one side, watching her. When 
she goes out, he speaks. 

2 Preceding editions, Actus quartus. Scana (juinta ; Bl. 'Apelles, Page.' 

3 See note 2, p. 309. 



I 



[act. v. sc. i] Alexander and Campaspe 321 



Actus quintus. Scaena prima.^ 

\_Enter'\ Sylvius, Perim, Milo, Trico, \_and~\ Manes. [Diogenes 

in his tub.'Y 

Syl. I have brought my sons, Diogenes, to be taught of thee. 

Diog. What can thy sonnes do ? 

Syi. You shall see their qualities. Dance, sirha ! 

Then Perim dance th. 
How like you this ? Doth he well ? 

Diog. The better, the worser.^ ^ 

Syl. The musicke very good. 

Diog. The musitions very bad, who onely study to have their 
strings in tune, never framing their manners to order. 

*Sy/. Now shall you see the other. Tumble, sirha ! 

Milo tumbleth. 
How like you this ? Why do you laugh ? lO 

Diog. To see a wagge that was borne to breake his neck by 
destinie to practise it by art. 

Milo. This dogge will bite me ; I will not be with him. 

Diog. Feare not boy ; dogges eate no thistles. 

Perim. I marvell what dogge thou art, if thou be a dogge. 15 

Diog. When I am hungry, a mastife ; and when my belly is 
full, a spannell. 

Syl. Dost thou beleeve^ that there are any gods, that thou art 
so dogged ? 

Diog. I must needs beleeve there are gods, for I thinke thee an 20 
enemie to them. 

Syl. Why so ? 

Diog. Because thou hast taught one of thy sonnes to rule his 
legges and not to follow learning, the other to bend his bodie every 
way and his minde no way. 25 

Perim. Thou doest nothing but snarle and barke, like a dogge. 

1 The market-place. M. 2 bi_ pyj-g < Diogenes ' before * Sylvius.' 

3 For the originals of this and the first, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth of Diogenes' s speeches 
which follow see Linjci of Philosophers, VI. 406, 415, 417, 418, 424, 428, 431. 
* Dost thou notf 



322 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. v 

Diog. It is the next^ way to drive away a theefe. 

SyL Now shall you heare the third, who sings like a nightingale. 

Diog. I care not ; for I have a nightingale to sing ^ her selfe. 

SyL Sing, sirha ! 30 

Tryco singeth, 

S0NG.3 

What * bird so sings yet so dos wayle ? 

O 'tis the ravish'd ^ nightingale. 

" Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,'^ shee cryes ; 

And still her woes at midnight rise. 

Brave prick song,^ who is't now we heare ? 35 

None but the larke so shrill and cleare. 

How at heavens gats "' she claps her wings, 

The morne not waking till shee sings ! 

Heark, heark, with what a pretty throat 

Poore Robin Red-breast tunes his note ! 40 

Heark how the jolly cuckoes sing 

"Cuckoe," to welcome in the spring; 

" Cuckoe," to welcome in the spring. 

SyL Loe, Diogenes ! I am sure thou canst not doe so much. 
Diog. But there is never a thrush but can. 45 

SyL What hast thou taught Manes, thy man ? 

1 Readiest. ^ Bl. omits to. F. and M. insert it. Query, 'sings' ? 

3 Of course the Song falls into three stanzas, with divisions at 11. 35, 39. — Gen. Ed. 

* These lines illustrate well how the memory of Shakespeare caught and held the best in the 
lines of others. Here, scattered through several lines, is the first line of the well-known song 
in Cytnbeline : — 

3 4 
*' None but the larke so shrill and cleare. 
5 6 7 

How at heavens gats she claps her wings, 

8 
The morne not waking till she sings! 

1 2 

Heark, heark, with what a pretty throat 
Poore Robin Red-breast tunes his note ! " 

* Not only enraptured^ but with reference to the story of Philomela, Ovid, Meta. VI. 

* Warbler. "^ ' Gate ' as in Shakespeare ? The ' s ' fi-om * she ' ? 



sc. ii] Alexander and Campaspe 323 

Diog. To be as unlike as may be thy sons. 

Manes. He hath taught me to fast, lie hard, and run away. 

Syl. How sayest thou, Perim, wilt thou bee with him ? 

Per'im. I, so he will teach me first to runne away. ^O 

Diog. Thou needest not be taught, thy legges are so nimble. 

Syl. How sayest thou, Milo, wilt thou be with him ? 

Diog. Nay, hold your peace ; hee shall not. 

.S>/. Why? 

Diog. There is not roome enough for him and me to tumble 55 
both in one tub. 

Syl. Well, Diogenes, I perceive my sonnes brooke not thy 
manners. 

Diog. I thought no lesse, when they knew my vertues. 

Syl. Farewell, Diogenes ; thou neededst not have scraped rootes, 60 
if thou wouldst have followed Alexander. 

Diog. Nor thou have followed Alexander, if thou hadst scraped 
rootes.-^ Exeunt \_all except Diogenes.'^ 



Actus quintus. Scaena secunda.^ 

\_Enter Apelles.^] 

ApeL I feare mee, Apelles, that thine eyes have blabbed that 
which thy tongue durst not ! What little regard hadst thou I 
Whilest Alexander viewed the counterfeit of Campaspe, thou 
stoodest gazing on her countenance. If he espie or but suspect, 
thou must needs twice perish, — with his hate and thine owne love. 5 
Thy pale lookes when he blushed, thy sad countenance when he 
smiled, thy sighes when he questioned, may breed in him a jelousie, 
perchance a frenzie. O love ! I never before knew what thou 
wert, and now hast thou made me that I know not what my selfe 
am ! Onely this I know, that I must endure intolerable passions 10 
for unknowne pleasures. Dispute not the cause, wretch, but yeeld 
to it ; for better it is to melt with desire than wrastle with love. 

1 For the original of this see Li-ves of Philosophers^ VI. 426. 

2 Studio of Apelles. ^ Bl. and later editors, Apelles alone. 



324 ^ Tragical! Comedie of [act. v 

Cast thy selfe on thy carefull bed ; be content to live unknown, 
and die unfound.^ O Campaspe, I have painted thee in my heart ! 
Painted ? Nay, contrary to mine arte, imprinted ; and that in such 15 
deepe characters that nothing can rase it out, unlesse it rubbe my 2 
heart out. Exit, 

Actus quintus. Scaena tertia.^ 
[Enter'] Milectus, Phrygius, \_and~\ Lais.* [Diogenes is in his tub,"] 

Mil. It shall goe hard but this peace shall bring us some pleasure. 

Phry. Downe with armes, and up with legges ! This is a world 
for the nonce ! ^ 

Lais. Sweet youths, if you knew^ what it were to save your 
sweet blood, you would not so foolishly go about to spend it. 5 
What delight can there be in gashing, to make foule scarres in faire 
faces, and crooked maimes in streight legges, as though men, being 
borne goodly by nature, would of purpose become deformed by 
folly, — and all, forsooth for a new-found tearme, called valiant^ 
a word which breedeth more quarrels than the sense can commen- 10 ■ 
dation ? f 

Mil. It is true, Lais, a feather-bed hath no fellow. Good drinke 
makes good blood, and shall pelting "^ words spill it ? 

Phry. I meane to enjoy the world, and to draw out my life at 
the wire-drawers; not to curtail it off at the cutlers. 15 

Lais. You may talke of warre, speake bigge, conquer worlds 
with great words; but stay at home, where in steade of alarums 
you shall have dances, for hot battailes with fierce men, gentle 
skirmishes with faire women. These pewter coates^ can never sit 
so well as satten doublets. Beleeve me, you cannot conceive the 20 
pleasure of peace unlesse you despise the rudenes of warre. 

Mil. It is so. But see Diogenes prying over his tub ! Diogenes 
what say est thou to such a morsell ? [Pointing to Lais.] 



1 *< Be content to live with thy love unexpressea, and to die with it undiscovered." 

2 Quartos and Bl. thy. Corrected by Do. ^ For the purpose. ^ Steel cuirasses. 

* The market-place. M. ^ Bl. know. 

* Bl. adds ' Diogenes.' "^ Contemptible. 



11 



sc. 



iiii] Alexander and Campaspe 325 



I 



Diog. I say I would spit it out of my mouth, because it should 
not poyson my stomacke. 25 

Phry. Thou speakest as thou art ; it is noe meate for dogges. 

Diog. I am a dogge, and philosophy rates 1 me from carrion. 

Lais. Uncivil wretch, whose manners are answerable to thy 
calling, the time was thou wouldest have had my company, had it 
not beene, as thou saidst, too deare. 30 

Diog. I remember there was a thing that I repented mee of, and 
now thou hast tolde it. Indeed, it was too deare of nothing,^ and 
thou deare to no bodie. 

Lais. Downe, villaine, or I will have thy head broken ! 

Mil. Will you couch ? ^ 35 

Phry. Avant, curre ! Come, sweet Lays, let us goe to some 
place and possesse peace. But first let us sing ; there is more 
pleasure in tuning of a voyce, than in a volly of shot. \_A Song.~\ 

Mil. Now let us make hast, least Alexander finde us here ! 

Exeunt [all except Diogenes.'^ 

Actus quintus. Scaena quarta.* 
\_Enter'] Alexander, Hephestion, [_and~\ Page.^ [Diogenes is in his tub.'\ 

Alex. Methinketh, Hephestion, you are more melancholy than 
you were accustomed ; but I perceive it is all for Alexander. You 
can neither brooke this peace nor my pleasure. Bee of good cheare ; 
though I winke, I sleepe not. 

Hep. Melancholy I am not, nor well content ; for, I know not 5 
how, there is such a rust crept into my bones with this long ease 
that I feare I shall not scowre it out with infinite labours. 

Alex. Yes, yes, if all the travailes of conquering the world will 
set either thy bodie or mine in tune, we will undertake them. But 
what thinke you of Apelles ? Did yee ever see any so perplexed ? 10 
He neither answered directly to any question, nor looked stedfastly 
upon any thing. I hold my life the painter is in love. 

1 In Kent rate is used for call away, off. F. ' Milectus threatens to strike Diogenes. 

2 If nothing were paid. ^ The market-place. M. 

^ Bl. adds * Diogenes, Apelles, Campaspe.' 



326 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. v 

Hep. It may be; for commonly we see it rncident in artificers 
to be enamoured of their owne workes, as Archidamus of his 
wooden dove, Pygmalion of his ivorie image,i Arachne of her 15 
woven swanne,2 — especially painters, who playing with their owne 
conceits, now coveting ^ to draw a glancing eie, then a rolling, now 
a winking, still mending it, never ending it, till they be caught with 
it, and then, poore soules, they kisse the colours with their lips, 
with which before they were loth to taint their fingers. 20 

Jlex. I will find it out. Page, goe speedily for Apelles. Will 
him to come hither; and when you see us earnestly in talke, 
sodainly crie out, " Apelles shop is on fire ! " 

Page. It shall be done. 

Alex. Forget not your lesson. [Exit Page.~\ 25 

Hep. I marvell what your devise shal be. 

Jlex. The event shall prove. 

Hep. I pittie the poore painter if he be in love. 

Jlex. Pitie him not, I pray thee. That severe gravity set aside, 
what doe you thinke of love ? 3^ 

Hep. As the Macedonians doe of their hearbe beet, — which 
looking yellow in the ground and blacke in the hand, — thinke it 
better seene than toucht. 

Jlex. But what doe you imagine it to be ? 

Hep. A word, by superstition thought a god, by use turned to 35 
an humour, by selfe-will made a flattering madnesse. 

Jlex. You are too hard-hearted to thinke so of love. Let us 
goe to Diogenes. \_They cross the stage.'] Diogenes, thou mayst 
thinke it somewhat that Alexander commeth to thee againe so soone. 

Diog. If you come to learne, you could not come soone enough ; 40 
if to laugh, you be come too soone. 

Hep. It would better become thee to be more courteous and 
frame thy self to please. 

Diog. And you better to bee lesse, if you durst displease. 

Jlex. What doest thou thinke of the time we have here ? 45 

Diog. That we have little and lose much. 

1 Ovid, Meta. X. 9. 

2 Earlier editions, his ivooden sivanne, borrowing the first two words from the line above. 
See note, p. 305. * M. suggests 'covet.' 



I 



sc. iiii] Alexander and Campaspe 327 

Alex. If one be sicke, what wouldst thou have him doe ? 

Diog, Bee sure that hee make not his physician his heire. 

Alex. If thou mightest have thy will, how much ground would 
content thee ? 50 

Diog. As much as you in the end must be contented withall. 

Alex. What, a world ? 

Diog. No, the length of my bodie. 

Alex. \aside^. Hephestion, shall I bee a little pleasant with him ? 

Hep. ^aside'j . You may ; but hee will be very perverse with you. 55 

Alex, [aside^ . It skils not ; ^ I cannot be angry with him. Diog- 
enes, I pray thee what doest thou thinke of love ? 

Diog, A little worser than I can of hate. 

Alex, And why? 

Diog, Because it is better to hate the things which make to love 60 
than to love the things which give occasion of hate. 

Alex, Why, bee not women the best creatures in the world ? 

Diog. Next men and bees. 

Alex. What doest thou dislike chiefly in a woman? 

Diog. One thing. . 65 

Alex, What? 

Diog, That she is a woman^ 

Alex. In mine opinion thou wert never borne of a woman, that 
thou thinkest so hardly of women. \_Enter Apelles.^ But now 
commeth Apelles, who I am sure is as farre from thy thoughts as 70 
thou art from his cunning. Diogenes, I will have thy cabin 2 re- 
moved neerer to my court, because I will be a philosopher. 

Diog, And when you have done so, I pray you remove your 
court further from my cabin, because I will not be a courtier. 

Alex. But here commeth Apelles. Apelles, what peece of work 75 
have you now in hand ? 

Apel. None in hand, if it like your Majestic; but I am devising 
a platforme ^ in my head. 

Alex. I thinke your hand put it in your head. Is it nothing 
about Venus ? 80 

1 A. 'skiUeth.' 

2 In Lyly's time * cabin ' seems to have been used vaguely for any rude dwelling. 
' A sketch for a picture, or the plan for a building. F. 



328 A Tragical! Comedie of [act. v 

Apel. No, but something above ^ Venus. \_The Page runs in.~\ 

Page. Apelles, Apelles, looke aboute ^ you ! Your shop is on 
fire ! 

Apel, [starting off'\. Aye mee, if the picture of Campaspe be 
burnt, I am undone ! 85 

Alex. Stay, Apelles ; no haste. It is your heart is on fire, not 
your shop ; and if Campaspe hang there, I would shee were burnt. 
But have you the picture of Campaspe ? Belike you love her well, 
that you care not though all be lost, so she be safe. 

Apel. Not love her ! But your Majestie knowes that painters in 90 
their last workes are said to excell themselves ; and in this I have 
so much pleased my selfe, that the shadow as much delighteth mee, 
being an artificer, as the substance doth others, that are amorous. 

Alex. You lay your colours grosly.^ Though I could not paint 
in your shop, I can spie into your excuse. Be not ashamed, Apel- 95 
les ; it is a gentlemans sport to be in love. [ To the Page.'] Call 
hither Campaspe. \_Exit Page.] Methinkes ^ I might have beene 
made privie to your aff^ection : though my counsell had not bin 
necessary, yet my countenance might have beene thought requisite. 
But Apelles, forsooth, loveth under hand; yea, and under Alexanders lOO A 
nose, and — but I say no more ! 

Apel. Apelles loveth not so ; but hee liveth to doe as Alexander 
will. \_Re-enter Page with Campaspe.'] 

Alex. Campaspe, here is newes. Apelles is in love with you. 

Camp. It pleaseth your Majestie to say so. 1 05 

Alex, [aside] . Hephestion, I will trie her too. — Campaspe, for 
the good qualities I know in Apelles and the vertue I see in you, I 
am determined you shall enjoy one another. How say you, Cam- 
paspe, would you say, " I ? " 

Camp. Your hand-maid must obey if you command. iio 

Alex [aside] . Thinke you not, Hephestion, that she would faine 
be commanded. 

Hep. [aside].' I am no thought-catcher, but I ghesse unhappily.'* 

1 M., phrasing as in the text, says : " In Bl. these two words (each standing at the end of 
a line ) are interchanged. F. prints as I do, but, as he has no note, I do not know whether he 
followed one of the older editions, or corrects by conjecture." 

2 Frame your excuses clumsily. ^ BL, two words. * ** But my surmise is mischievous." 



sc. iiii] Alexander and Campaspe 329 

Alex. I will not enforce marriage where I cannot compell love. 

Camp. But your Majestie may move a question where you be 115 
willing to have a match. 

Alex. ^aside\ . Beleeve me, Hephestion, these parties are agreed ; 
they would have mee both priest and witnesse. — Apelles, take 
Campaspe ! Why move yee not ? Campaspe, take Apelles ! Will 
it not be ? If you be ashamed one of the other, by my consent you 120 
shall never come together. But dissemble not, Campaspe. Doe 
you love Apelles ? 

Camp. Pardon, my lord ; I love Apelles. 

J/ex. Apelles, it were a shame for you, being loved so openly 
of so faire a virgin, to say the contrairie. Do you love Campaspe ? 1 25 

Jpel. Onely Campaspe ! 

J/ex. Two loving wormes, Hephestion ! I perceive Alexander 
cannot subdue the affections of men, though he^ conquer their 
countries. Love falleth, like a dew, as well upon the low grasse as 
upon the high cedar.^ Sparkes have their heate, ants their gall, 130 
flies their spleene. Well, enjoy one another. I give her thee 
frankly, Apelles. Thou shalt see that Alexander maketh but a toy 
of love and leadeth affection in fetters, using fancie as a foole to 
make him sport or a minstrell to make him merry. It is not the 
amorous glance of an eye can settle an idle thought in the heart. 135 
No, no, it is childrens game, a life for seamsters and schollers ; 
the one, pricking in clouts,^ have nothing else to think on ; the 
other, picking fancies out of books, have little else to marvaile 
at. Go, Apelles, take with you your Campaspe ; Alexander is 
cloyed with looking on that which thou wondrest at.^ 140 

Jpel. Thankes to your Majestie on bended knee : you have hon- 
oured Apelles. 

1 Bl. though conquer. F. added the * he. ' 

2 See Euphues and his England, Arber, 256. 

3 Patching. 

* *' What good reckoning Alexander made of him, he shewed by one notable argument ; for 
having among his courtesans one named Campaspe, whom he fancied especially in regard as 
well of that affection of his as her incomparable beauty, he gave commandement to Apelles to 
draw her picture all naked ; but perceiving Apelles at the same time to be wounded with the 
like dart of love as well as himself, he bestowed her on him most frankly. Some are of opin- 
ion that by the patterne of this Campaspe, Apelles made the picture of Venus Anadyomene." 
Holland, XXXV. 10. The name really was Pancaste. 



33^ Alexander and Campaspe [act. v. sc. im] 

Camp. Thankes with bowed heart : you have blessed Campaspe, 

Exeunt \_Apelles and Campaspe]^, 

Alex. Page, goe warne Clytus and Parmenio and the other lords 
to be in a readinesse ; let the trumpet sound ; strike up the drumme; 145 
and I will presently into Persia. How now, Hephestion, is Alex- 
ander able to resist love as he list ? 

Hep. The conquering of Thebes was not so honourable as the 
subduing of these thoughts. 

Alex. It were a shame Alexander should desire to command the 150 
world, if he could not command himselfe. But come, let us goe. 
I will trie whether I can better beare my hand with my heart ^ than 
I could with mine eye. And, good Hephestion, when all the world 
is wonne and every country is thine and mine, either find me out 
another to subdue, or, of^ my word I will fall in love. Exeunt. 155 

^ Alexander refers to the unfavorable comment of Apelles on his drawing, p. 310, 1. 109. 
a F. on. 



FINIS 



THE EPILOGUE AT THE 
BLACKE FRIERS 

Where the rain bow toucheth the tree, no caterpillars will hang 
on the leaves ; where the gloworme creepeth in the night, no adder 
will goe in the day : wee hope in the eares where our travailes be 
lodged, no carping shall harbour in those tongues. Our exercises 
must be as your judgment is, resembling water, which is alwayes of 5 
the same colour into what it runneth. In the Troyan horse lay 
couched souldiers with children ; ^ and in heapes of many words we 
feare divers unfit among some allowable. But, as Demosthenes 
with often breathing up the hill, amended his stammering, so wee 
hope with sundrie labours against the haire^ to correct our studies. 10 
If the tree be blasted that blossomes, the fault is in the winde and 
not in the root ; and if our pastimes bee misliked that have beene 
allowed, you must impute it to the malice of others and not our 
endevour. And so we rest in good case, if you rest well content. 

1 Knights. 2 Against the grain. F. 



331 



The Epilogue at the Court 

We cannot tell whether wee are fallen among Diomedes ^ birdes 
or his horses, — the one received some men with sweet notes,^ the 
other bit all men with sharpe teeth. But, as Homer's gods con- 
veyed them into cloudes whom they would have kept from curses, 
and, as Venus, least Adonis should be pricked with the stings of 5 
adders, covered his face with the wings of swans, so wee hope, 
being shielded with your Highnesse countenance, wee shall, though 
heare ^ the neighing, yet not feele the kicking of those jades, and re- 
ceive, though no prayse — which we cannot deserve — yet a pardon, 
which in all humilitie we desire. As yet we cannot tell what we 10 
should tearme our labours, iron or bullion ; only it belongeth to your 
Majestic to make them fit either for the forge or the mynt, currant 
by the stampe or counterfeit by the anvill. For, as nothing is to be 
called white unlesse it had beene named white by the first creator,* 
so can there be nothing thought good in the opinion of others un- 15 
lesse it be christened good by the judgement of your selfe. For our 
selves, againe, we are like these torches of waxe, of which, being in 
your Highnesse hands, you may make doves or vultures, roses or 
nettles, laurell for a garland or ealder for a disgrace.^ 

1 A king of Thrace who fed his horses with human flesh. 

2 " Birds called Diomedae. Toothed they are, and they have eies as red and bright as 
the fire : otherwise their feathers be all white. Found they be in one place, innobled for 
the tombe and Temple of Diomedes, on the coast of Apulia. Their manner is to cry with 
open mouth uncessantly at any strangers that come aland, save only Grecians, upon whom they 
wil seem to fawne and make signs of love ... as descended from the race of Diomedes." Hol- 
land, X. 44.. 

'^ F. following Do. unnecessarily prints 'wee heare.' 

* Bl. creature. F. first printed 'creator.' 

fi Disgrace attached to the elder because it was the tree on which Judas hanged himself. F. 



33a 



George Peek 



THE OLD WIVES' TALE 



Edited with Critical Essay and Notes 
by F. B. Gum mere, Ph.D., 
Professor in Haverford College, 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

Life. — George Peele, probably sprung from a Devonshire family, and 
the son of James Peele, clerk of Christ's Hospital, is known to have been in 
1565 a free scholar of the grammar school connected with that foundation. 
He went to Oxford in 1571 ; studied at Broadgates Hall, now Pembroke 
College, and at Christ Church; took his B.A. in 1577, his M.A. in 
I 579, and went up to London about 1 580. At Oxford he already had the 
name of poet, scholar, and dramatist. He was married, it would seem, as 
early as 1583, to a wife who brought him some property; this, however, 
soon vanished, and left the poet dependent upon his wits. Although the 
stories in the Jests are musty old tales, fastened upon Peele, it is unlikely 
that they settled on his name without a sense of fitness on the part of a pub- 
lic that had known his ways, — his hopeless lack of pence, his good nature 
and popularity, his shifts to beg, borrow, and cozen. With Greene, Nashe, 
Marlowe, and a few lesser lights, he belonged to that group of scholars who 
wrote plays, translations, occasional poems, pageants, and whatever else 
would find a market. Now and then, it is almost certain, he appeared as 
an actor. Of his dissolute course of life, its misery and squalour, there can 
be no doubt whatever; ** driven as myself," says Greene, **to extreme 
shifts." As early as 1579 Peele had made trouble for his father; he lived 
in poverty; and the curtain falls upon an ignoble end. Dying before 1598, 
the poet barely saw his fortieth year. 

Plays assigned to Peele. — The best plays of Peele are The Ar- 
raignment of Paris ^ published in 1584, and, in Fleay's opinion, played 
as early as 1581, — a "first encrease," Nashe calls it, written in 
smooth metres which doubtless had influence on Marlowe's own 
verse; The Old Wives' T^/^, published 1595; and the saccharine 
David and Bethsahe^ beloved of German critics. Edtuard /., with 
wofully corrupt text, is good only in parts ; The Battle of Alcazar^ 
published anonymously in 1594, is almost certainly Peele's, but 
does not help his reputation ; while Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes is 

335 



336 George Peele 

quite certainly not Peele's in any way. Fleay, Biographical Chroni- 
cle of the English Drama^ II. 296, assigns it, along with Common 
Conditions and Jppius and Virginia^ to R. B. (Richard Bower?), 
whose initials appear on the title-page- of the last-named play. 
Professor Kittredge, however. Journal of Germanic Philology^ II. 8, 
suggests, as author of Sir Clyomon^ Thomas Preston of Cambyses 
fame. By way of compensation for this loss, Fleay (work quoted, 
II. 155) attributes to Peele The Wisdome of Doctor Doddipoll^ pub- 
lished in 1600 j there is dialect in the play, but overdone, good blank 
verse, and an indifferent plot. The song. What Thing is Love^ 
hardly makes foundation enough for the assumption that Peele 
wrote the play, even with the aid of an enchanter among the char- 
acters, and a metre like that of David and Bethsabe. Further, 
Fleay presents our author with TVily Beguiled^ possibly, he thinks, a 
university play ; but his proof is not convincing. Kirkman, in a 
catalogue of plays added to his edition of Tom Tiler and his Wife^ 
1661, credits George Peele not only with David and Bethsabe^ but 
with Alphonsus^ Emperor of Germany^ while Will Shakespeare has the 
Arraignment of Paris, The Old Wives' Tale is set down as anony- 
mous. 

In regard to Peele's miscellaneous and occasional poetry there 
need be noted here only his clever use of blank verse in shorter 
poems, his charming lyrics, and those noble lines at the end of the 
Polyhymnia^ beginning — 

*' His golden locks time hath to silver turnM.*' 

Peele's Place in the Development of English Drama. — Although we 
had a text of absolute authority and a minutely accurate life of the 
author, we should gain with all this lore no real stay for a study, a 
critical understanding of The Old Wives' Tale^ regarded as an ele- 
ment in the making of English comedy. Peele and his play, along 
with any hints of sources and models that are to be heeded, and 
with whatever help may come from study of his other works, must 
be fused into a single fact and compared with those " environmental 
conditions" which influence all literary production. This will 
determine the equation between art and nature, between the cen- 
trifugal forces, which are always expressing themselves in terms of 



1 



George Peek 337 

what is called genius or originality, and the centripetal forces of a 
great literary and popular development. It will determine the rela- 
tion of Peele's comedy to the line of English comedies. 

Such a critical process leaves one with two qualities in mind that 
seem to have had an initial force. They belong to Peele on con- 
temporary testimony confirmed by a study of his works. Tom 
Nashe, more in eulogy than in discrimination, yet surely not without 
a dash of critical discernment, calls Peele " the chief supporter of 
pleasance now living, the atlas of poetry, and primus verhorum art'i- 
fex " 1 

Nashe undoubtedly flatters, but another of the " college," Greene, 
in that death-bed appeal to his brother playwrights, was in no mood 
for flattery ; and it is probably sincere, even if mistaken, praise when 
he calls Peele " in some things rarer, in nothing inferior," to Mar- 
lowe, and to that " young juvenall " who may be Nashe or Lodge. 
In what things Peele was " rarer," Greene fails to say, but a study 
of The Arraignment of Paris ^ of David and Bethsabe^ even of portions 
oi Edward /., and of the Battle of Alca%ar^ supports the reputation of 
Peele as an artist in words, and in prose as "well-languaged"; while 
in The Old Wives' Tale there greets the critic, not too openly, it is 
true, but unmistakably, the quality of humour. Moreover, there 
are the Jests which, apocryphal as they doubtless are, and sorry 
stuff by any reckoning, nevertheless show that to people of his day 
Peele was counted a merry fellow, a humourist in our sense of the 
word.2 Perhaps Shakespeare's jests would seem as stale and flat if 
we had the anecdotes that passed current among his successors at 
the playhouse. In any case, George had a sense of humour which 

1 "To the Gentlemen Students of both Universities," prefixed to Greene's Alenaphon, 
a well-known passage. Little, if anything, can be made of Meres when (Haslewood, II., 
153) he couples Peele now with Ariosto, now, as tragical poet, with Apollodorus Tarsensis. 
He does not name Peele among the writers of comedy. Later, in Have tvith Tou to Saffron 
Walden (Grosart, III. 196), Nashe, with no mention of Peele, concedes to Greene mas- 
tery, above all the craft, in "plotting of plaies." This dramatic art of words, by the way, 
must not be confused with Euphuistic feats. Greene, Nashe, even Harvey, turned with Sidney 
against mere "playing with words and idle similies," and Peele is anything but a follower of 
Guevara. 

2 Merrie conceited j^ests of George Peele, Gentleman, sometimes a Student in Oxford. 
Wherein is sheived the course of his life, hoiv he li-ved : a man -very ivell knoivne in the Citie 
of London and elseivhere. . . . There was an edition in 1607, hardly ten years after Peele's 
death. 



338 George Peek 

found utterance in this Old Wives' Tale ; it is not the classical 
humour of Roister Doister^ not the hearty but clumsy mirth of Gam- 
mer Gurton^'hut rather a hint of the extravagant and romantic which 
turns upon itself with audible merriment at its own pretences, a 
hint, not of farce or of wit merely, but of genuine humour, some- 
thing not to be found in Greene's lighter work,i or in Lyly's 
Mother Bombie^ or in any of those earlier plays that did fealty to 
the comic muse. Such, then, is the contemporary formula for 
Peele as a power in the making of English drama: ^'-primus verhorum 
artifex^' and " chief supporter of pleasance." He was an artist in 
words, and he had the gift of humour. 

As regards this artistry in words, it is well known that the con- 
ditions of English life, the vigour of speech as quickened by inter- 
course in the street, the market-place, the exchange, where a spoken 
word even in traffic and commerce still counted better than a 
written word, dialogue and conversation better than oratory, and the 
conditions of the stage itself, with its slender resources of scenery 
and its confident appeal to the imagination, all helped to push this 
pomp and mastery of phrase into the forefront of an Elizabethan 
playwright's qualifications. Probably the spectator at a play felt 
something of the interest which was then so rife in the world of 
books and learning, — the interest in words as words, in the course 
of a sentence as indicating more or less triumph over a still un- 
trained tongue. Nietzsche is extravagant but suggestive in certain 
remarks that bear upon this verbal artistry in the drama. Speaking 
of Nature and Art,^ he insists that the Greeks taught men to like 
pompous dramatic verse and an unnatural eloquence in those tragic 
situations where mere nature is either stammering or silent. The 
Italians went further and taught us to endure, in the opera, some- 
thing still more artificial and unnatural — a passion which not only 

1 The Looking Glasse for London and England has some boisterous comedy, but no humour. 
In George-a-Greene, good play that it is, the ballad material is taken quite seriously. In Friar 
Bacon and Friar Bungay there is exquisite idyllic work, a dash of passable, though quite tradi- 
tional, comedy, but no trace of the peculiar element, presently to be described as the dominant 
note of treatment in The Old Wi'ves' Tale. 

^ Frohliche JVissenschaft, p. 109 f. So in his Geburt der Tragodie, p. 89, speaking of the 
prologue as used by Euripides, which told in advance the action of the play, Nietzsche asserts that 
the Athenians were less interested in the plot than in the pathos of situations and the rhetoric 
of thi players. 



George Peele 339 

declaims, but sings. Tragic eloquence, sundered from nature, feeds 
that pride which "loves art as the expression of a high heroic 
unnaturalness and conventionality." " The Athenian," Nietzsche 
goes on to say with cheerful heresy, " went into the theatre not to 
be roused by pity and terror, but to listen to fine speeches." One 
is inclined to think that this desire for fine speeches had a large 
share in the motive which sent an Elizabethan to the play. Cer- 
tainly the drama responded to this demand more quickly than to 
any demand for coherence of plot and delicacy of characterization. 
Who led in this movement ? Most critics brush aside all rivals 
from the path of Marlowe and credit him alone with the " mighty 
line," the pomp of diction, the sweep of word and figure, which 
brought the drama from those puerilities of phrase and manner up 
to its noble estate. This is true in the sense that Marlowe was 
infinitely greater as a poet and a tragedian than either Greene or 
Peele. But as verhorum artifex it is probable that Marlowe has had 
considerable credit which belongs to the others, particularly Peele ; 
and the testimony of Nashe and Greene, who knew the craft, must 
not be rejected so utterly. Campbell, it is true, praised Peele as 
" the oldest genuine dramatic poet of our language " ; but Symonds, 
and with him are such scholars as Mr. A. W. Ward, asserts that 
Peele "discovered no new vein." Symonds is inclined to look on 
Greene as herald^ and Marlowe as founder; Peele is a pleasant but 
unimportant maker of plays and verse. Greene, he thinks, began 
the school of gentleman and scholars who wrote for the stage at a 
time when rhyming plays were in vogue ; but none of those which 
Greene wrote has come down to our day. Marlowe now comes 
imperiously upon the scene, forces his blank verse into favour, and is 
at last reluctantly admitted by Greene and the others into their 
" college." So runs the theory of Symonds. Quite opposed to 
this view of the case is Mr. Fleay, who declares that Marlowe 
followed George Peele in the article of " flowing blank verse." ^ 
There can be no question, moreover, that certain critics have 
exalted Greene too high and put Peele too low. Peele had quite 

1 "The romantic play, the English Farsa, may be called in a great measure his discovery." 
Shakespeare^ s Predecessors, p. 580. 

2 ** A matter in which he certainly anticipated Marlowe," Biog. Cbron. II. 151. 



340 George Peele 

as much as Greene to do with the refining and energizing of Eng- 
lish dramatic diction, a process aptly described by Thomas Hey- 
wood in his Apology for Actors:^ " Our English tongue ... is now 
by this secondary meanes of playing continually refined, every writer 
striving in himselfe to adde a new florish unto it." Plots remained 
clumsy, crude ; but what change in the diction of plays ! In Appius 
and Virginia there is still puerile diction and jog-trot metre, — 

** They framed also after this, out of his tender side, 
A piece of much formosity, with him for to abide." 

From this to blank verse and compressed or energetic diction, as 

{Jeroni?no)^ — 

** My knee sings thanks unto your Highness bounty," — 

is a progress involving vast reformings, and some deformings,^ 
in diction and in metre, of such sweep that Elizabethans put these 
qualities first when they went about to judge a play. " Your nine 
comoedies," writes Harvey to Spenser, come nearer to Ariosto's, 
" eyther for the finenesse of plausible Elocution, or the rareness of 
Poetical Invention," than the Faery ^eene to the Orlando Furioso. 
In this ennobling of diction, Peele may not have led the column of 
playwrights, but he was certainly in the van. His achievement 
must not be dashed by a comparison with Shakespeare, who cov- 
ered up absurdities of plot — as in the Merchant of Venice — by 
brilliant characterization, where this earlier group depended upon 
the art of words.^ For the related art of brave metres, of a " flow- 
ing blank verse " in plays, we have no space to argue upon the 
claims of leadership. Enough is done for the matter if one remem- 
bers that Peele, who wrote admirable blank verse before Marlowe 
was out of his teens, had nothing to learn from the greater poet 

1 Ed. Shakespeare Society, 1841, p. 52. 

^ Peele is not of the extreme group whose feats in diction remind one of what Dr, Johnson 
said about the metaphysical poets, that ** their wish was only to say what they hoped had never 
been said before." 

3 Gosson, in a well-known passage, puts brave language first among dramatic attractions: 
** sweetness of words, fitness of epithets, with metaphors, allegories, . . ." 



George Peek 341 

about the management of this metre in and for itself.^ Certainly 
he got more music out of the pentameter than any earher dramatist 
had done; witness such a movement as, — 

"What sign is rainy and what star is fair," 

** And water running from the silver spring." 

The Old Wives' Tale, an Innovation in Comedy. — It may be conceded 
that Peek "discovered no new vein" in diction and in metre, 
although his work in each was of a high order, not far removed 
from leadership. Different is the case when one considers his 
claims for innovation in comedy. He was the first to blend 
romantic drama with a realism which turns romance back upon 
itself, and produces the comedy of subconscious humour. The 
tragedies, and even the miracle plays, while extravagant in form, 
had not been altogether unnatural in action. The supernatural in 
that age was not unnatural. The unnatural was mainly confined 
to the diction. Gradually, as every one knows, the romantic ele- 
ment, in a wide sense, got upper hand and ruled the English drama. 
In The Old IVives' Tale this romantic spirit comes in, not as a new 
element, but as a new kind of "art" grafted upon the "nature" 
of the rough and comic stock ; and to the reader's surprise draws 
away all unnaturalness from the dialogue, which is now plain, 
natural, commonplace.2 Redism in diction was no new thing; 
romance in plot was not an innovation ; it was the clash, the inter- 
play, the subjective element, th'e appeal to something more than 
a literal understanding of what is said and done, a new appeal to 
a deeper sense of humour — here lay the new vein discovered by 
Georo-e Peele. The romantic drama, we repeat, was known •, wit- 
ness That little group of " folk-lore romances," as Mr. Fleay calls 
them, Cotnmon Conditions, Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes, and Apptus 
and Virginia ; the two former are full of adventures, of amorous 
knights and wandering ladies, a Forest of Strange Marvels, an Isle 

1 Lammerhirt counts nearly 84 per cent of the verses in the Arraignment of Paris as rhymed ; 
Da-vid and Bethsabe has less than 7 per cent, and The Battle of Alcazar barely 3 per cent. 

2 The diction of The Old Wi-vei Tale differs from Lyly's comic prose much as Nashe s style 
in his pamphlets differs from the periods of Lyly's Eufhuti. 



342 George Peek 

of Strange Marshes, what not. In all of them, however, the 
romance is presented in unnatural diction, to suit such unnatural 
doings, and justifies those bitter words of the Second and Third Blast 
of Retrait from Plates and Theaters^ that " the notablest Her is 
become the best Poet ... for the strangest Comedie brings greatest 
delectation . . . faining countries neuer heard of, monsters and pro- 
digious creatures that are not. . . ." A milder romantic drama, but 
without the humour which we mean, is Greene's Orlando Furioso. 
The other plays, however, have no humour at all except the tradi- 
tional humour of the Vice ; and of the three representatives. Condi- 
tions, who finally turns pirate, is certainly a far merrier person than 
Haphazard in Appius or Subtle Shift in Sir Clyomon. There is 
realistic setting in Common Conditions^ with some lively dialogue, 
and a distinctly catching song and chorus ^ of tinkers, at the open- 
ing of the play. It is " business " here, however, not that dramatic 
irony, springing from contrast of romantic plot and realistic diction, 
which makes a sufficiently timid beginning in The Old Wives^ 
Tale^ and grows so insistent in The Knight of the Burning Pestle, 
Moreover, Peele's realistic work shows the control and conscious- 
ness of a higher art.' There are no peasants like Hodge in Gammer 
Gurton^ Corin in Sir Clyomon^ and Hob and Lob in Cambyses.^ 
There is an outburst or two of yokel wit in Peele's play ; but there 
is no breaking of heads, no chance for the clown to sing a song 
while drunk, as Hance does in the interlude of Like Wil to Like. 
These signs of a subtler conception of his art should be placed 
to Peele's credit ; for while an obvious dialect marks Hodge and 
Corin and the rest, Clunch and Madge speak a plain English, re- 
minding one irresistibly of the milk-woman's talk with Piscator : 
it smacks of cottage and field and hedge-rows and, as Nashe would 
say, has " old King Harrie sinceritie." There is a difference as 
between the exaggerated " hayseed " of a comic paper and the finer 
drawing in one of Hardy's peasants. Exaggeration would spoil the 

1 Ed. W. C. Hazlitt, Roxburgh Library, 1869, p. 145. 

^ See the song in Appius^ " Hope so and hap so." — In Misogonus^ the Vice appears as a 
domestic fool. 

^ Compare the French and broken English in Three Lords and Three Ladies of London^ 
the dialect of Bohan the Scot in Greene's James ly.^ and the inevitable Wel?hrnant 



I 



George Peele 343 

sense of contrast between honest Madge and the high pretences of 
the plot. In Huanebango there is girding not only at Harvey, but 
at the romance hero in general ; this big-mouthed, impossible fellow, 
with Corebus as a foil, foreshadows, however dimly, the far more 
clever presentation of an English Don Quixote in the person of Ralph. 
A second element of humour in this realistic treatment of 
romance is the use of an induction, or rather of a combination 
of the induction and the play within the play, as a means of ex- 
pressing dramatic irony. Although the induction springs from the 
prologue, and although the opening of The Old Wives' Tale is tech- 
nically an induction, like many another of the time, it has to our 
thinking a distinctly new vein. What Schwab ^ calls the first 
example of the use of an induction — in The Rare Triumphs of Love 
and Fortune — makes both induction and play connected parts of a 
whole. It is a dramatic device, wholly objective in character, 
external, with no demand upon the sense of contrast. Different, 
but hardly a new idea,^ is the induction as employed by Greene in 
Alphonsus and James IV. ; here is a return to the old' notion of the 
prologue, a justifying of the playwright's way. Will Summer, 
the pet jester,^ who ushers in Nashe's play, calls Jiimself outright 
a kind of chorus. In the old Tanning of a Shreiv^ printed in 1594, 
Sly, while only a casual commentator upon the play, is entirely 
outside of the main action, which, as Schwab points out, thus be- 
comes an actual play within the play. Still, even in these cases, 
the contrast is objective and direct. The induction is a clever 
device to heighten interest in the play. Before, it had served the 
playwright as an expression of his purpose in the main drama; 
later, as with Ben Jonson, it voiced his critical opinions. Whether 
objective or subjective, however, the contrast between play and 
induction is direct. Quite different is that induction, which Schwab 
rightly calls remarkable, in The Knight of the Burning Pestle ; and 
different, too, is that earlier attempt, which Schwab unaccountably 
fails to mention, in The Old Wives' Tale. These both appeal to a 

1 Das Schauspiel im Schauspie/, Wien and Leipzig, 1896. 

2 *' A new moti'v,'''' says Schwab. Fleay (worJc quoted, I. 266) thinks The Old WfueC 
Tale fairly parodies the induction in James IV. 

3 See a similar bit of horse-play in Wily Beguiled. 



344 George Peele 

sense of humour awakened by the interplay of theme and treatment^ 
of character and situation. In Peele's play this involution of epic, 
drama, and comment — a seeming confusion which has distressed 
many of the critics — really heightens the dramatic power of the 
piece. The induction is double. First come a bit of romance, 
with the lost wanderers in the wood, and a realistic foil in their own 
dialogue^— by no means the "heavy prose" of Collier's censure. 
Secondly comes outright realism with Clunch, Madge, the bread and 
cheese, and the old joke about bedfellows, cleverly followed by 
Madge's abrupt raid upon romantic ground. She is well started, 
but stumbling, when the other actors break in ; and the inner play, 
not without some confusion and mystification, runs its course.^ 
Perhaps the sense of huddling, abruptness, confusion, is inten- 
tional as part of an old wives' tale indeed; perhaps, again, this 
must be laid to the charge of Peele's carelessness in " plotting 
plaies." Be that as it may be, the interplay of these elements 
makes a new kind of comedy ; and the humour of this play, crude 
and tentative as it seems when compared with the humour of Uncle 
Toby^ and of those lesser lights that revolve in the orbit of the 
Quixotic contrast, differs from earlier essays of the sort in that it 
is not a separate element of fun, but rather something which exists 
in solution with the comedy itself. The Old Wives' Tale lies 
midway between the utter lack of coherence in Nashe's play and 
the subtlety of Beaumont and Fletcher. Will Summer is often 
irrelevant and tiresome ; the main action, on which he comments, 
js now pathetic, now farcical, now merely spectacular; but in our 
play the thread of romance runs throughout unbroken and keeps 
the piece in a sort of unity, while the comment, whether direct or 
hinted, has a vastly finer vein of irony. The romantic side of 
folk-lore has its due withal, as in the test of fidelity at the end 
between Eumenides and Jack, with the proposed division of Delia 
— a casus always acceptable to such an audience, and here of acute 
though subordinate interest. Moreover, Peele has a kind of reti- 
cence and control in his art; he suggests in a whisper what Will 
Summer would have roared into commonplace and horse-play. 

1 The delicate irony of later triflings with romance — as in Wieland's Oberon — is, of 
course, quite out of the question. 



George Peek 345 

The Background of Folk-Lore. — Finally, the very Old Wives' Tale 
itself, with its background of folk-lore, that tryst of ancient splen- 
dour with modern poverty and ignorance on the territory of a for- 
gotten faith, is a thing of quietly humorous contrasts. Several 
elements are to be considered in the charming little medley which 
Peele has made from the folk-lore of his day — " that curious 
melange of nursery tales," as Mr. Joseph Jacobs calls it. The 
enchanter and his spells, the stolen daughter and her brothers' quest, 
make a familiar central group. Perhaps Madge set out to tell the 
story of Ch'ilde Rowland^ familiar to Elizabethans,^ although ^ack the 
Giant Killer has his claims. ^\i^ fee-fa-fum^ as every one knows, 
occurs also in Shakespeare's Lear. The help of the White Bear — 
a transformation, like the saws and prophecies, sufficiently familiar 
in these tales — is similar to that of Merlin in Childe Rowland', but 
the ghost of Jack reminds one of the other story. Mr. Jacobs 
quotes Kennedy that in a parallel Irish tale " Jack the servant is 
the spirit of the buried man." One has only to make this substi- 
tution, and the vicarious gratitude of the Giant Killer ^ is better 
explained. Perhaps, too, Peele has borrowed some of his thunder 
and lightning, as well as Huanebango's fee-fa-fum.^ from the 
giants ; and the disenchantment at the hands of an invisible hero 
may belong, in part, to this tale. Two other folk-tales may be 
named — The Well of the World's End^ mentioned, if a slight 
emendation be allowed, in The Complaynt of Scotland., and The Three 
Heads of the Well — as known, in some form, to Peele, and used 
directly in the story of the two daughters. The familiar theme of 
the so-called " death index " ^ is touched but slightly ; and perhaps 
it is unnecessary to go to the Red Ettin for a parallel to Huane- 
bango and Corebus, who respectively refuse and give a piece of 
cake to the helpful old man. The theme is common in folk-lore. 



1 See English Fairy Talesy J. Jacobs, edition of 1898, pp. 243, 245. A monograph , 
could be written on the folk-lore of this play, where, it is to be conjectured, Peele has fol- 1 
lowed no single tale, but has combined parts of separate stories, and flung in bits of rhyme and I 



See English Fairy Tales, J. Jacobs, edition of 1898, pp. 243, 245. A monograph 
be written on the folk-lore of this pi 
I no single tale, but has combined parts 
fragments of superstition, as fancy bade him. 

2 English Fairy Tales, p. 104. This theme of the Thankful Dead is extremely common. 
It is found in an old English romance. Sir Amadace, and has been treated by Max Hippe, in 
Herrig's Archi'v, Vol. LXXXI, p. 141. 

3 Jacobs, English Fairy Tales, Notes, p. 252. See also Frazer's Golden Bough. 



346 George Peek 

It is interesting to note that Beaumont and Fletcher show a liking 
for folk-tales, as well as for traditional songs and ballads, in that 
play, which by its induction and general spirit most closely resembles 
this Old Wives' Tale. More dignified sources were long ago pointed 
out by Warton, who remarked that " the names of some of the 
characters . . . are taken from the Orlando Furioso.'" Meroe, in 
Apuleius, was invoked. But it seems clear enough that English 
folk-lore must be the mainstay of critics who think all is done for 
a work of literature when they have found out every possible and 
impossible source for plot, sideplot, and allusion. 

Literary Estimate. — The marvel, after all, is not that these mate- 
rials are huddled and confused in the combination ; the confusion 
is part of the artistic process, and if the figures move across the 
stage without firm connection one with the other, that, too, is done 
after the manner of the old tale. We are on romantic ground, 
and are to see by glimpses. Here is no comedy of incident, in the 
usual meaning of the term, no comedy of intrigue or of manners. 
It is rather a comedy of comedies, a saucy challenge of romance, 
where art turns, however timidly, upon itself. Perhaps Peele wrote 
this play, as Dryden wrote All for Love., to please himself. Un- 
questionably, until Mr. Bullen made a plea for mercy. The Old 
Wives' Tale had been shamefully treated. Collier ^ calls it "noth- 
ing but a beldam's story, with little to recommend it but heavy 
prose and not much lighter blank verse," a most inadequate sum- 
mary from, any point of view. The plav, he thinks, has " a dis- 
gusting quantity of trash and absurdity." Dyce, while regarding 
Peele's " superiority to Greene " as " unquestionable," is not en- 
thusiastic about The Old Wives' Tale. Mr. Ward speaks ^ of " the 
labyrinthine intricacy of the main scenes," knows not whether to 
call it farce or interlude, and would pass it by save for the suggestion 
of Comus. But Mr. Bullen very properly objects to this unfair com- 
oarison. Symonds, to be sure, uses it even more unfairly. The 
Old Wives' Tale^ he makes bold to sav, is the sow's ear to Milton's 
silk purse.3 With an unusual blindness to literary perspective, 

1 Annah of Stage ^ etc., III. 197. 2 Eng. Dram. Lit. I. 372. 

3 Shakespeare" s Predecessors, p. 563 ff. Mr. Jacobs thinks that both poets went to folk- 
lore for their materials. Childe Roivland is the probable source. 



t 



George Peek 347 

Symonds goes on to judge this flickering little candle of romance, 
folk-lore, and half-roguish, half-ironical suggestion, by the sun- 
blaze of Milton's high seriousness and full poetic splendours. Peele, 
it seems, does not " lift his subject into the heavens of poetry. . . . 
The wizard is a common conjurer. The spirit is a vulgar village 
ghost." Why not, pray ? What should they be for the purposes 
of this old wives' tale ? What would be left, say, of Chaucer's 
charming little story, that "folye, as of a fox, or of a cok and hen," 
if one were to pulverize it with such critical tools ? Peele is not 
trying to raise comedy into the heavens ; he left that for his betters ; 
and the ineffectual Delia is a long remove from Hermia and Helena 
in the " wood near Athens." What Peele, George Peele of the 
dingy jests, probably tried to do, and what he surely succeeded in 
doing, was to bring a new and more subtle strain of humour into 
the drama. Itur in antiquam silvam. Realism left shabby and squalid 
things, alehouse wit, and laid hold of a sweeter life. Reckless, 
good-natured scholar, George fairly followed the call which haunted 
so many academic outcasts, the call which Marlowe and Greene 
and Dekker answered with those sweet songs of country life, and 
which led Peele to the making of this play. He wove romance 
and realism into a fabric that may well show a coarse pattern and 
often very clumsy workmanship, but, on the whole, it is a pleasing 
pattern and a new. Moreover, it is all made of sound English 
stuff. The tales he used for his main drama were familiar to Eng- 
lish ears ; the persons of his framework play were kindly folk of 
any English village, and the air of it all is as fresh and wholesome 
as an English summer morning. 

Sources, Title, Text The sources of the play, so far as one 

may speak of sources, are indicated in general above, and in par- 
ticular by notes to the following text. The plural form of the title 
ought probably to be singular, in spite of common usage, the gloss 
ealdra cuu'ena spel (Wright, Voc.\ and i Timothy iv, 7 ; Mr. Fleay, 
perhaps as a concession to Madge, prints Old IVifes' Tale {Biog. 
Chron. Eng. Drama^ H. 154).^ He puts the date of composition 
"clearly 1590," on the theory that Harvey — Huanebango — is 

1 It is entered on the Stationers' Registers to Raphe Hancock, April i6, 1595, the oivlde 
vii/es tale, Qf. " an olde wives tale," Greene, Groatsiv, (Grosart XII, 1 19). — Q^n. Ed, 



348 George Peek 

here satirized by Peele as a consequence of Harvey's attack upon 
Lyly in 1589, — circulated then in manuscript though not printed 
until 1593. Lammerhirt 1 argues, but not conclusively, that the 
play was written before 1588, — partly because of the allusions to 
Harvey, and partly because style and form point to an early period 
in the author's development. Until a surer date can be established, 
however, 1590 will serve as the time of composition for this play. 
The Old Wives'' Tale^ says Dyce, " had sunk into complete oblivion, 
till Steevens . . . communicated to Reed the account of it which 
appeared in the Biographia Dramatica.'* In 1783 Steevens writes 
to Warton : " All I have learned in relation to the original from 
which the idea of Milton's Comus might be borrowed, I communi- 
cated to Mr. Reed. . . . Only a single c'opy of his [j/V] Old 
Wives' Tale has hitherto appeared, and even that is at present out of 
my reach. . . ." ^ As to the rhythmic structure, E. Penner notes ^ 
that of 964 lines of this play 192 are five-stress or ordinary heroic 
verse, 7 are hexameters, and lOO short verses. The rest is prose. 
The best edition is, of course, that of Bullen, in 3 vols., i888-[B]; 
but there were excellent editions by Dyce, one in 1828 fF., and 
another in i86i-[Dy.]. The present text of The Old Wives* 
Tale is from the 1595 quarto in the British Museum; the title- 
page is, with the exception of the vignettes, a fair representation of 
the original. 

F. B. GUMMERE. 

1 G. P. Untersuchungen, etc., Rostock, 1862, pp. 62 ff. 

2 Biogr. Mem. of the late Jos. fVarton, DD., London, 1806, p. 398. 

3 Metrische Untersuchungen -zu George Peele, in the Archi-v fur das Studium d. neueren 
Spracben,&tc. (1890), LXXXV. 279. 




THE 

Old Wiues Tale 

A pleafant conceited Come- 

die played by the Queenes Ma- 

iefties players 

Written by G. P. 



VIGNETTE 



Printed at London by John Danter^ and are to 

be fold by Raph Hancocke^ and lohn 

Hardie, 1^95- 






[The Persons of the Play* 

Sacrapant. 

First Brother, named Calypha. 

Second Brother, named Thelea. 

eumenides. 

Erestus. 

Lampriscus. 

Huanebango. 

Corebus. 

WiGGEN. 

Churchwarden. 

Sexton. 

Ghost of Jack. 

Friar, Harvest-men, Furies, Fiddlers, etc. 

Delia, sister to Calypha and Thelea. 

Venelia, betrothed to Erestus. 

Zantippa 1 

^ * \ daughters to Lampriscus. 

Celanta, j ^ 

Hostess. 

Antic. 

Frolic. 

Fantastic. 

Clunch, a smith, 

Madge, his wifeS^ 

* Not in Q.J inserted by Dy. On the history of the characters see Appendix A. 



The Old Wives Tale. 




Enter Anticke, Frolicke, and Fantasticke, 

Anticke. 

^OW nowe fellowe Franticke,^ what, all a mort ? 2 Doth 
this sadnes become thy madnes ? What though wee 
have lost our way in the woodes, yet never hang the 
head, as though thou hadst no hope to live till to mor- 
row : for Fantasticke and I will warrant thy life to night for twenty 5 
in the hundred. 

Frolicke. Anticke and Fantasticke, as I am frollicke franion,^ never 
in all my life was I so dead slaine. What ? to loose our way in 
the woode, without either fire or candle so uncomfortable .? O cae- 
lum ! O terra ! O maria ! O Neptune ! ^ 10 

Fantas. Why makes thou it so strange, seeing Cupid hath led 
our yong master to the faire Lady and she is the only saint that he 
hath sworne to serve ? 

Frollicke. What resteth then but wee commit him to his wench, 
and each of us take his stand up in a tree, and sing out our ill 15 
fortune to the tune of O man in desperation.^ 

1 A mistake for Frolic. 

2 Alamort, mortally sick ; and then, dispirited. 
^ *'A gay, reckless fellow." 

^ Below ' Neptune,' Sig. A iii. 

^ B. refers to Ebbsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, IV. 365, 468. See also Nash, Four Letters 
Confuted (Grosart, II. 190), who says of Harvey's "barefoote rimes" that "they would 
have trowld off bravely to the tune of man in desperation, and, like Marenzos Madrigals, 
the mourneful note naturally have affected the miserable Dittie." 

351 



352 The Old Wives Tale 

Ant. Desperately spoken, fellow Frollicke in the darke : but see- 
ing it falles out thus, let us rehearse the old proverb.^ 

Three merrie men^ and three merrie men^ 

And three merrie men he wee. 20 

/ in the wood^ and thou on the ground^ 

And Jacke sleepes in the tree. 

Fan. Hush ! a dogge in the wood, or a wooden dogge.^ O 
comfortable hearing ! I had even as live the chamberlaine of the 
White Horse had called me up to bed. 25 

Frol. Eyther hath this trotting cur gone out of his cyrcuit, or 
els are we nere some village, which should not be farre off, for I 

Enter a Smith with a lanthorne ^ candle. 

perceive the glymring of a gloworme, a candle, or a cats eye, my 
life for a halfe pennie. In the name of my own father, be thou 
oxe or asse that appearest, tell us what thou art. 30 

Smith. What am I ? Why I am Clunch the Smith ; what are 
you, what make you in my territories at this time of the night? 

Ant. What doe we make, dost thou aske ? Why we make faces 
for feare : such as if thy mortall eyes could behold, would make thee 
water the long seames of thy side slops,^ Smith. 35 

Frol. And in faith, sir, unlesse your hospitalitie doe releeve us, 
wee are like to wander with a sorrowfull hey ho, among the owlets, 
& hobgoblins of the forrest : good Vulcan, for Cupids sake that hath 
cousned us all, befriend us as thou maiest, and commaund us how- 
soever, wheresoever, whensoever, in whatsoever, for ever and ever.* 40 

1 Chappell gives the song in Popular Music of the Olden Time^ p. 216. Three Merry 
Men is quoted irl Westivard Hoe, and in Barry's Ram Alley (sung by Smallshanks : see note, 
Hazlitt-Dodsley, X. 298), as well as in Tivelfth Night; and it is parodied by the musical 
cook in The Bloody Brother. Chappell is somewhat daring when he takes these words from 
the Old Winjei Tale as the original 5 lines 3 and 4 look like a parody, 
. 2 Dy. points out the pun in ' wooden ' ( =: mad). 

'^ Long wide breeches or trousers ; Dy. See Looking-Glass for London and England, near 
end : " This right slop is my pantry, behold a manchet \_Draivs it out"] "... 

* A bit of nonsense like the talk of Macbeth's porter. The speech is a sort of parody on 
the appeal of wandering knights or travellers in romances, and Clunch, with his ' territories,' 
may take the place of enchanter, giant, or the like. 



The Old Wives Tale 353 

Smith. Well, masters, it seemes to mee you have lost your waie in 
the wood: in consideration whereof, if you will goe with Clunch^ 
to his cottage, you shall have house roome, and a good fire to sit 
by, althogh we have no bedding to put you in. 

M. O blessed Smith, O bountifuU Clunch. 45 

Smith. For your further intertainment, it shall be as it may be, 
so and so. 

Heare a do££e barke. 



Hearke ! ^ this Is Ball my dogge that bids you all welcome in his 
own language; come, take heed for^ stumbling on the threshold. 
Open dore, Madge, take in guests. Enter old woman. 50 

CI. Welcome Clunch & good fellowes al that come with my 
good man ; for my good mans sake come on, sit downe ; here is a 
peece of cheese & a pudding of my owne making. 

Anticke. Thanks, Gammer.; a good example for the wives of our 
towne. 55 

Frolicke. Gammer, thou and thy good man sit lovingly together; 
we come to chat and not to eate. 

Smith. Well, masters, if you will eate nothing, take away. Come, 
what doo we to passe away the time ? Lay a crab * in the fire to 
rost for lambes-wooll. What, shall wee have a game at trumpe or 60 
ruffe ^ to drive away the time, how say you ? 

Fantasticke. This Smith leads a life as merrie as a king^ with 
Madge his wife. Syrrha Frolicke, I am sure thou art not without 
some round or other; no doubt but Clunch can beare his part. 

Frolicke. Els thinke you mee ill brought up ; '^ so set to it when 65 
you will. They sing. 

1 This use of the third person is common in dramas of the time. See Ward, Old English 
Drama, Select Plays, etc., Introd., p. xi., notes. So in Greene: "Which Brandamart 
(/.e. I)" ... 5 *' For Sacripant must have Angelica." It served to identify the actor. 

2 They are now supposed to be at the cottage. ^ por fear of . . . 
* A crab-apple. The pulp w^as mixed w^ith ale, 'lamb's wool.' 

^ Collier gave Dyce the following quotation from Martinis Month'' s Minde : "leaving the 
ancient game of England ( Trumpe), where every coate and sute are sorted in their degree, are 
running to Ruffe, where the greatest sorte of the sute carrieth away the game.' ' 

^ The familiar motif of the contented peasant as entertainer of royalty or what not. 

■^ According to the yests (Bullen, II. 314), George Peele had no skill in music, and 
must have been a conspicuous exception j witness the well-known statement of Chappell, Popu- 



354 The Old Wives Tale 

Song. 

When as the Rie reach to the chin, 

And chopcherrie,^ chopcherrie ripe within, 

Strawberries swimming in the creame, 

And schoole boyes playing in the streamer ^0 

Then O, then O, then O my true love said, 

Till that time come againe, 

Shee could not live a maid. 

Ant. This sport dooes well : but me thinkes, Gammer, a merry 
winters tale would drive away the time trimly. Come, I am sure 75 
you are not without a score. 

Fantast. I faith. Gammer, a tale of an howre long were as good 
as an howres sleepe. 

Frol. Looke you, Gammer, of the Gyant and the Kings Daughter,^ 
and I know not what. I have scene the day when I was a little one, 80 
you might have drawne mee a mile after you with such a discourse. 

Old woinan. Well, since you be so importunate, my good man 
shall fill the pot and get him to bed ; they that ply their worke must 
keepe good howres. One of you goe lye with him ; he is a cleane 
skind man, I tell you, without either spavin or windgall ;. so I am 85 
content to drive away the time with an old wives winters tale. 

Fantast, No better hay in Devonshire,^ a my word. Gammer, 
He be one of your audience. 

Frolicke. And I another : thats flat. 

Anticke. Then must I to bed with the good man. Bona nox 90 
Gammer ; God night, Frolicke. 

Smith. Come on, my lad, thou shalt take thy unnaturalH rest 

Exeunt Anticke and the Smith. 

lar Music, p. 98. The barber kept " lute or cittern " in his shop for the amusement of wait- 
ing customers ; and England had been a land of song from Caedmon's time down. The *' man 
in the street" was expected to know how to join in a part song. The rural song, such as 
they sing here, was a great favorite with the dramatists. 

1 Chopcherry : "a game in which one tries to catch a suspended cherry with the teeth; 
bob-cherry." . . . New Engl. Diet. 

2 A version of Chi/Je Roiuland f 3 Peele was probably of a Devonshire femily. 
^ A Dogberrian touch, evidently beloved by the pit, and a fine makeweight to those pom- 
pous experiments with word and phrase which delighted the serious playgoer. 



The Old Wives Tale 355 

Frollicke. Yet this vantage shall we have of them in the morn- 
ing, to bee ready at the sight thereof extempore.^ 95 

Old worn. Nowe this bargaine, my masters, must I make with you, 
that you will say hum & ha to my tale, so shall I know you are awake. 

Both. Content, Gammer, that will we doo. 

Old worn. Once uppon a time there was a King or a Lord, or a 
Duke, that had a faire daughter, the fairest that ever was ; as white 100 
as snowe, and as redd as bloud : and once uppon a time his daughter 
was stollen away, and hee sent all his men to seeke out his daughter, 
and hee sent so long, that he sent all his men out of his land. 

Frol. Who drest his dinner then ? 

Old woman. Nay, either heare my tale, or kisse my taile. 1 05 

Fan. Well sed, on with your tale. Gammer. 

Old woman. O Lord, I quite forgot, there was a Conjurer, and 
this Conjurer could doo any thing, and hee turned himselfe into a 
great Dragon, and carried the Kinges Daughter away in his mouth 
to a Castle that hee made of stone, and there he kept hir I know no 
not how long, till at last all the Kinges men went out so long, that 
hir two Brothers went to seeke hir.^ O, I forget : she (he I would 
say) turned a proper ^ yong man to a Beare in the night, and a 
man in the day, and keeps* by a crosse that parts three several! 
waies, & he^ made his Lady run mad . . . Gods me bones, who 115 
comes here ? Enter the two Brothers. 

Frol. Soft, Gammer, here some come to tell your tale for you.^ 

Fant. Let them alone, let us heare what they will say. 

I Brother. Upon these chalkie cliffs of Albion ^ 
We are arived now with tedious toile, 120 

And compassing the wide world round about 
To seeke our sister, to ^ seeke faire Delya forth, 
Yet cannot we so much as heare of hir. 

1 Below * extempore, ' Sig. B. 

2 See Critical Essay for the folk-tales in question. 3 handsome. 

* *he' keeps (frequents, lives), i.e. the young man. Omission of subject is common in 
the ballads. ^ The conjurer. 

^ See the Critical Essay for this *'play within the play." 

"^ The princes, of course, talk in metre when the "high style" is needed, but in femiliar 
prose with Erestus ( = "Senex"). The repetitions in this blank-verse are characteristic. 

^ B. omits. Dy. proposes to omit * faire.' Neither omission is necessary. 



356 The Old Waives Tale 

2 Brother. O fortune cruell, cruell & unkind, 
Unkind in that we cannot find our sister; 125 

Our sister haples in hir cruell chance ! 
Soft, who have we here? 

Enter Senex at the Crosse, stooping to gather, 

I Brother. Now, father, God be your speed. 
What doo you gather there ? 

Old man. Hips and hawes, and stickes and straws, and thinges 130 
that I gather on the ground, my sonne.^ 

1 Brother. Hips and hawes, and stickes and strawes ! Why, is 
that all your foode, father ? 

Old man. Yea, sonne. 

2 Brother. Father, here is an almes pennie for mee, and if I 135 
speede in that I goe for, I will give thee as good a gowne of gray^ 

as ever thou diddest weare. 

1 Brother. And, father, here is another almes pennie for me, and 
if I speede in my journey, I will give thee a palmers stafFe of yvorie, 
and a scallop shell of beaten gold.^ 140 

Old man. Was shee fayre ?^ 

2 Brother. I, the fairest for white, and the purest for redd, as the 
blood of the deare, or the driven snow. 

Old m. Then harke well and marke well, my old spell : 
Be not afraid of every stranger, 145 

Start not aside at every danger : 
Things that seeme are not the same, 
Blow a blast at every flame : 
For when one flame of fire goes out. 
Then comes your wishes well about : 
If any aske who told you this good, 
Say the White Beare of Englands wood. 

1 Reminds one of nursery tales with bits of rhyme, — rthe cante-fahle of folk-lore. 

2 So Milton's famous " grey hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed "... 

3 Below 'gold,' Sig. B ii. 
* Dy. assumes that '* something . . . has dropt out " ; but this is not necessary. Erestus, who 

says below that he * speaks in riddles,' knows the errand of the brothers, and asks the question 
abruptly. He plays the part of Merlin in Childe Rowland. 



The Old Waives Tale 357 ' 

1 Brother. Brother, heard you not what the old man said ? 

Be not afraid of every stranger, j 

Start not aside for every danger: 155 j 

Things that seeme are not the same, | 

Blow a blast at every flame : \ 

If any aske who told you this good, ;; 

Say the White Beare of Englands wood.^ | 

2 Brother. Well, if this doo us any good, 160 1 
Wei fare the White Bear of Englands wood. Ex. 

Old man. Now sit thee here & tel a heavy tale. 
Sad in thy moode, and sober in thy cheere, 
Here sit thee now and to thy selfe relate, 

The hard mishap of thy most wretched state. 165 
In Thessalie I liv'd in sweete content, 

Untill that Fortune wrought my overthrow ; ' 
For there I wedded was unto a dame, 

That liv'd in honor, vertue, love, and fame ; ' 

But Sacrapant, that cursed sorcerer, 170 i 

Being besotted with my beauteous love, \ 

My deerest love, my true betrothed wife, , 

Did seeke the meanes to rid me of my life. j 

But worse than this, he with his chanting ^ spels, \ 

Did turne me straight unto an ugly Beare; 1 75 ^ 

And when the sunne doth settle in the west, i 

Then I begin to don my ugly hide : j 

And all the day I sit, as now you see, I 

And speake in riddles all inspirde with rage, : 

Seeming an olde and miserable man : 180 i 
And yet I am in Aprill of my age. 

Enter Venelia his Lady mad ; and goes in againe* ] 

See where Venelya, my betrothed love, | 

Runs madding all inrag'd about the woods, I 

All by his curssed and inchanting spels. 1 

I 

*• The spell is important, solemn, and is therefore repeated. No particular tale of The 1 

White Bear of England's Wood is kncwn, but similar cases of transformation are plentiful. * 
2 Dy. prints * 'chanting ' 5 needlessly. 



358 The Old Wives Tale 

Enter Lampriscus with a pot of honny. 

But here comes Lampriscus, my discontented neighbour. How 185 
now, neighbour, you looke towarde the ground as well as I ; you 
muse on something. 

Lamp. Neighbour on nothing, but on the matter I so often mooved 
to you : if you do any thing for charity, helpe me ; if for neighbor- 
hood or brotherhood, helpe me: never was one so combered as is 190 
poore Lampryscus : and to begin, I pray receive this potte of honny 
to mend ^ your fare. 

Old man. Thankes, neighbor, set it downe ; 
Honny is alwaies welcome to the Beare. 
And now, neighbour, let me heere the cause of your comming. 195 

Lampriscus. I am (as you knowe, neighbour) a man unmaried, 
and lived so unquietly with my two wives, that I keepe every yeare 
holy the day wherein I buried thew both : the first was on Saint 
Andrewes day, the other on Saint Lukes.^ 

Old man. And now, neighbour, you of this country say, your 200 
custome is out : but on with your tale, neighbour. 

Lamp. By my first wife, whose tongue wearied me alive, and 
sounded in my eares like the clapper of a great bell, whose talke 
was a continuall torment to all that dwelt by her, or lived nigh her, 
you have heard me say 1 had a handsome daughter. 205 

Old man. True, neighbour. 

Lampr. Shee it is that afflictes me with her continuall clamoures, 
and hangs on me like a burre : poore shee is, and proude jhee is ; as 
poore as a sheepe new shorne, and as proude of her hopes, as a pea- 
cock of her taile well growne. 210 

Old man. Well said, Lampryscus, you speake it like an Eng- 
lishman. 

Lampr. As curst as a waspe, and as frowarde as a childe new 
taken from the mothers teate; shee is to my age, as smoake to the 
eyes, or as vinegar to the teeth. 215 

1 Below * mend,' Sig. B iii. 

2 B. notes that ** St. Luke's Day (i8th October) was the day of Horn Fair 5 and St. Luke 
was jocularly regarded as the patron saint of cuckolds. St. Andrew was supposed to bring good 
luck to lovers." . . . 



The Old Waives Tale 359 

Old man. Holily praised, neighbour, as much for the next. 

Lampr. By my other wife I had a daughter, so hard favoured, 
so foule and ill faced, that I thinke a grove full of golden trees, 
and the leaves of rubies and dyamonds, would not bee a dowrie 
annswerable to her deformitie. 2 20 

Old man. Well, neighbour, nowe you have spoke, heere me 
speake ; send them to the well for the water of life : ^ there shall 
they finde their fortunes unlooked for. Neighbour, farewell. Exit. 

Lampr. Farewell and a thousand ; ^ and now goeth poore Lam- 
pryscus to put in execution this excellent counsell. Exeunt. 225 

Frol. Why this goes rounde without a fidling stick. But doo 
you heare. Gammer, was this the man that was a beare in the 
night, and a man in the day ? 

Old woman. I, this is hee j and this man that came to him was a 
beggar, and dwelt uppon a greene. But soft, who comes here ? O 230 
these are the harvest men ; ten to one they sing a song of mowing. 

Enter the harvest men a singingy with this 

Song double repeated.^ 

All yee that lovely lovers be, pray you for me. 

Loe here we come a sowing, a sowing. 

And sowe sweete fruites of love : 

In your sweete hearts well may it proove. Exeunt. 235 

Enter Huanebango* with his two hand sword, and Booby ^ the Clowne. 

Fant. Gammer, what is he ? 

Old woman. O this is one that is going to the Conjurer j let him 
alone; here what he sayes. 

1 The reference is to the tale preserved in several versions, and known as "The Three 
Heads of the Well," Jacobs, English Fairy Tales, p. 222. *< The Well of the World's 
End," p. 215, however, has the incident of filling a sieve. 

2 So "God ye good night, and twenty, sir!" In Middleton's Trick to Catch the Old 
One — '* A thousand farewells." Compare the well-known forms of greeting, as " Griiss' 
mir mein Liebchen zehntausend mal !" or the elaborate message at the opening of the ballad 
Childe Maurice. 3 ggg Appendix B on this Song. * See Appendix A. 

^ The * Booby ' is later called ' Corebus ' or * Chorebus. ' See Harvey, The Trimming of 
Thomas Nashe, Grosart, III. 29 : "Thou mayest be cald the very Choroebus of our time, of 
whom the proverbe was sayde, more foole than Chorcebus : who was a seely ideot, but yet had 
the name of a wise man. "... 



360 The Old Wives Tale 

Huan. Now by Mars and Mercury, Jupiter and Janus, Sol and 
Saturnus, Venus and Vesta, Pallas and Proserpina, and by the honor 240^ 
of my house Polimackeroeplacydus,^ it is a wonder to see what this 
love will make silly fellowes adventure, even in the wane of their 
wits and infansie of their discretion. Alas, my friend, what fortune 
calles thee foorth to seeke thy fortune among brasen gates, inchanted 
towers, fire and brimstone, thunder and lightning ? Beautie, I tell 245 
thee, is peerelesse, and she precious whom thou affectest : do off these 
desires, good countriman, good friend, runne away from thy selfe, and 
so soone as thou canst, forget her; whom none must inherit but J, 

he that can monsters tame, laboures atchive, riddles absolve, loose ■ 

inchantments, murther magicke, and kill conjuring : and that is the 250 
great and mighty Huanebango. 

Booby. Harke you sir, harke you. First know I have here the 
flurting feather, and have given the parish the start for the long 
stocke.2 Nowe sir, if it bee no more but running through a little 
lightning and thunder, and riddle me, riddle me, what's this,^ He 255 
have the wench from the Conjurer if he were ten Conjurers. 

Huan. I have abandoned the court and honourable company, to 
doo my devoyre against this sore sorcerer and mighty magitian : if 
this Ladie be so faire as she is said to bee, she is mine, she is mine. 
Meus^ mea, meum., in contemptum omnium grammaticorum. 260 

Booby. O falsum Lat'inum I the faire maide is minum^ cum apur- 
tinantibus gibletes and all. 

Huan. If shee bee mine, as I assure my selfe the heavens will 
doo somewhat to reward my worthines, shee shall bee allied to 
none of the meanest gods, but bee invested in the most famous 265 

1 Mr. Fleay thinks this is a pun upon that eternal theme of satire for Harvey's enemi s, the 
rope-maker's trade of his father. "The names," Mr. Fleay says, '* for the stock of Piaane- 
bango are adapted from Plautus, Polymachaeroplacidus (from Pseudulus), Pyrgopolinices (from 
Miles G/oriosus), in shapes which inevitably suggest English puns indicating Harvey's rope- 
making extraction, Polly-make-a rope-lass, and Perg-up-a-line-O. ..." Mr. Fleay is bold. 

2 A difficult passage. Dy. thinks the stock is a sword, — Corebus **has run away from 
the Parish, and become a sort of knight-errant. " Dr. Nicholson : " He has started and they 
may catch " (if they can) and as a vagabond put him in the stocks. B. makes the clown plume 
himself on his finery. He points with pride to his feather ; and he is equally proud of his 
fashionable "long stock" (i.e. the stocking fastened high above the knee). This gives bet- 
ter sense than the second explanation ; Corebus asserts a sort of equality with Huanebango. 

3 The successful guessing of nddles wins a bride, fortune, liberty, what not, in many a folk- 
tale. 



The Old Wives Tale 361 

stocke of Huanebango Polimackeroeplacidus, my grandfather, my 
father Pergopolyneo, my mother Dyonora de Sardynya, famousHe 
descended. 

Booby. Doo you heare, sir, had not you a cosen, that was called 
Gustecerydis ? 270 

Huan. Indeede I had a cosen, that sometime followed the 
court infortunately, and his name Bustegustecerydis. 

Booby . O Lord I know him well; hee is the^ knight of the 
neates feete. 

Huan. O he lov'd no capon better. He hath oftentimes deceived 275 
his boy of his dinner ; that was his fault, good Bustegustecerydis. 

Booby. Come, shall we goe along ? ^ Soft, here is an olde man at 
the Crosse ; let us aske him the way thither. Ho, you Gaffer, I 
pray you tell where the wise man the Conjurer dwells. 

Huan. Where that earthly Goddesse keepeth hir abode, the 280 
commander of my thougts, and faire Mistres of my heart. 

Old 7nan. Faire inough, and farre inough from thy fingering, 
sorme. 

Huan. I will foUowe my fortune after mine owne fancie, and 
doo according to mine owne discretion. 285 

Old man. Yet give some thing to an old man before you goe. 

Huan. Father, mee thinkes a peece of this cake might serve 
your turne. 

Old man. Yea, sonne. 

Huan. Huanebango giveth no cakes for almes ; aske of them 290 
that give giftes for poore beggars. Faire Lady, if thou wert once 
shrined in this bosome, I would buckler thee hara-tantara. Exit. 

Booby. Father, doo you see this man ? You litle thinke heele run 
a mile or two for such a cake, or passe for^ a pudding. I tell you. 
Father, hee has kept .such a begging of mee for a peece of this cake ! 295 
Whoo, he comes uppon me with a superfantiall substance, and the 
foyson * of the earth, that I know not what he meanes. Iff hee came 
to me thus, and said, ' my friend Booby,' or so, why I could spare him 
a peece with all my heart ; but when he tells me how God hath 
enriched mee above other fellowes with a cake, why hee makes 300 

1 Below « the,' Sig. C. 2 Enter Eratus. ^ care for. 

* plenty. Corebus quotes the stilted talk of Huanebango. 



362 The Old Wives Tale 

me blinde and deafe at once. Yet, father, heere is a peece of cake 
for you,^ as harde as the world goes.^ 

Old man. Thanks, sonne, but list to mee : 
He shall be deafe when thou shalt not see= 

Farewell, my sonne; things may so hit, ^05 

Thou maist have wealth to mend thy wit. 

Boohy. Farewell, father, farewell ; for I must make hast after my 
two-hand sword that is gone before. Exeunt omnes. 



Enter Sacrapant in his studie. 






Sacrapant. The day is cleare, the welkin bright and gray, 
The larke is merrie, and records^ hir notes; ^lO 

Each thing rejoyseth underneath the skie. 
But onely I whom heaven hath in hate, 
"Wretched and miserable Sacrapant. 
In Thessalie was I borne and brought up.* 

My mother Meroe hight, a famous witch, 315 

And by hir cunning I of hir did learne. 
To change and alter shapes of mortall men. 
There did I turne my selfe into a dragon. 
And stole away the daughter to the king, 

Faire Delya, the mistres of my heart, 320 

And brought hir hither to revive the man 
That seemeth yong and pleasant to behold, 
And yet is aged, crooked, weake and numbe. 
Thus by inchaunting spells I doo deceive 

Those that behold and looke upon my face ; 325 

But well may I bid youthfull yeares adue. 

Enter Delya with a pot in hir hand. 

See where she coms from whence my sorrows grow. 
How now, faire Delya, where have you bin ? 

Delya, At the foote of the rocke for running water, and gather- 
ing rootes for your dinner, sir. 330 

1 This gift of the cake reminds one of a similar motif in the tale of The Red Ettin, Jacobs, 

P- 135- 

2 though times are hard. * sings. ^ Below * up,' Sig. C ii. 



The Old Waives Tale 363 \ 

Sacr. Ah, Delya, fairer art thou than the running water, yet 

harder farre than Steele or adamant. J 

Delya. Will it please you to sit downe, sir ? | 

Sacr. I, Delya, sit & aske me what thou wilt ; thou shalt have it i 

brought into thy lappe. ^o^- j 

Delya. Then I pray you, sir, let mee have the best meate from I 

the king of Englands table, and the best wine in all France, brought ! 

in by the veriest knave in all Spaine.^ ! 

Sacr. Delya, I am glad to see you so pleasant. \ 

Well, sit thee downe. -^ ^ o i 

Spred, table, spred; meat, drinke & bred; j 

Ever may I have what I ever crave, \ 

When I am spred, for^ meate for my black cock, 1 

And meate for my red. | 

Enter a Frier with a chine of beef e and a pot of wine, 

Sacr. Heere, Delya, will yee fall to ? 'lA-^ 

Del. Is this the best meate in England ? 

Sacr. Yea. 

Del. What is it ? 

Sacr. A chine of English beefe, meate for a king j 

And a king's followers. ^^q 

Del. Is this the best wine in France ? 

Sacr. Yea. ■ 

Del. What wine is it ? 

Sacr. A cup of neate wine of Orleance, i 

That never came neer the brewers in England.^ ^^r • 

Del. Is this the veriest knave in all Spaine ? j 

Sacr. Yea. i 



1 These tricks of magic are the staple of tales and chapbooks about conjurers, and make a 
braver showing in plays like Doctor Faustus and Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay. See the latter 
play in this volume, and Mr. Ward's introduction to his edition of the two dramas. 

2 Later editions omit. The formula is less uncanny than usual 5 but the two cocks have 
grim associations. The dark-red cock of Scandinavian myth belonged to the underworld. 

See The Wife of Usher's Well, and R. Kohler in the Germania, XI. 85 ff. \ 

^ The local hits are to be noted : praise for roast beef of England, wine of France, and 
girding at Spain, at brewers, — one thinks of Falstaff's complaint about the lime in h'ssack, — 
friars, and usurers. 1 

\ 
'\ 

\ 



364 The Old Waives Tale 

Del. What, is he a fryer ? 

Sacr. Yea, a frier indefinit, & a knave infinit. 

Del. Then I pray ye, sir Frier, tell me before you goe, which is 
the most greediest Englishman ? 

Fryer. The miserable and most covetous usurer. 

Sacr. Holde thee there. Friar. Exit Friar. 

But soft, who have we heere ? Delia, away, begon.^ 

Enter the two Brothers. 

Delya, away, for beset are we -, 365 

But heaven or hell shall rescue her for me.^ 

7. Br. Brother, was not that Delya did appeare ? 
Or was it but her shadow that was here ? 

2. Bro. Sister, where art thou ? Delya, come again ; 
He calles, that of thy absence doth complaine. 370 

Call out, Calypha, that she may heare, 
And crie aloud, for Delya is neere. 

Eccho. Neere.3 

/. Br. Neere ? O where, hast thou any tidings ? 

Eccho. Tidings. 375 

2. Br. Which way is Delya then, — or that, or this.? 

Eccho. This. 

1. Br. And may we safely come where Delia is ? 
Eccho. Yes. 

2. Bro. Brother, remember you the white 380 
Beare of Englands wood : 

Start not aside for every danger ; 

Be not afeard of every stranger ; fli 

Things that seeme, are not the same. " 

1. Br. Brother, why do we not thew coragiously enter ? 385 

2. Br. Then, brother, draw thy sword & follow me. 

Enter the Conjurer ; it lightens ^ thunders ; the 2. Brother falls downe. 

I. Br. What, brother, doost thou fall ? 
Sacr. I, and thou to, Calypha. 

1 Below *begon,' Sig. C iii. 2 g^ prints : < heaven [n]or hell shall rescue her from me.' 

2 Did this Echo suggest the song in Comus f 



The Old Wives Tale 365 

Fall I, Brother. Enter two Furies, 

Adeste Damones : away with them ; 
Go cary them straight to Sacrapantos cell, 39° 

There in despaire and torture for to dwell. 
These are Thenores sonnes of Thessaly, 
That come to seeke Delya their sister forth ; 
But with a potion, I to her have given. 
My arts hath made her to forget her selfe. 395 

He remooves a turfe, and shewes a light in a glasse,^ 
See heere the thing which doth prolong my life j 
With this inchantment I do any thing. 
And till this fade, my skill shall still endure, 
And never none shall breake this little glasse. 

But she that's neither wife, widow, nor maide. 4^0 

Then cheere thy selfe ; this is thy destinie, 

Never to die, but by a dead mans hand. Exeunt. 

Enter Eumenides the wandering knight, and the Old Man"^ at the Crosse. 

Eum. Tell me. Time, tell me, just Time, 
When shall I Delia see ? 

When shall I see the loadstar of my life ? 4^5 

When shall my wandring course end with her sight. 
Or I but view my hope, my hearts delight ! 

Father, God speede ; if you tell fortunes, I pray, good father, tell me 
mine. 

Old man. Sonne, I do see in thy face, 410 

Thy blessed fortune worke apace ; 
I do perceive that thou hast wit. 
Beg of thy fate to governe it ; 
For wisdome govern'd by advise 

Makes many fortunate and wise. 4^5 

Bestowe thy almes, give more than all. 
Till dead men's bones come at thy call. 
Farewell, my sonne, dreame of no rest. 
Til thou repent that thou didsX best. ^-^^'^ O/^ ^• 

1 The '« Life-Index," so called, of popular tales, connected with the equally popular motif 
of the «* Thankful Dead." * E^estus. 



366 The Old Wives Tale 

Eum. This man hath left me in a laborinth : a^q 

He biddeth me give more than all, 
Till dead mens bones come at thy call : 
He biddeth me dreame of no rest, 
Till I repent that I do best. 

Enter Wiggen, Corobus,^ Churchwarden and Sexten. 

Wiggen. You may be ashamed, you whorson scald Sexton and 425 
Churchwarden, if you had any shame in those shamelesse faces of 
yours, to let a poore man lie so long above ground unburied. A 
rot on you all, that have no more compassion of a good fellour 
when he is gone. 

Simon. What, would you have us to burie him, and to aunswere 430 
it our selves to the parrishe ? 

Sexton. Parish me no parishes ; pay me my fees, and let the rest 
runne on in the quarters accounts, and put it downe for one of your 
good deedes a Gods name \ for I am not one that curiously stands 
upon merits. 435 

Corobus. You whoreson, sodden-headed sheepes-face, shall a good 
fellow do lesse service and more honestie to the parish, & will you 
not, when he is dead, let him have Christmas ^ buriall ? 

Wiggen. Peace Corebus, as sure ^ as Jack was Jack, the frollickst 
frannion ^ amongst you, and I Wiggen his sweete sworne brother,^ 440 
Jack shall have his funerals, or some of them shall lie on Gods deare 
earth for it, thats once.^ 

Churchwa. Wiggen, I hope thou wilt do no more then thou 
darst aunswer. 

Wig. Sir, sir, dare or dare not, more or lesse, aunswer or not 445 
aunswer, do this, or have this. 

Sex. Helpe, helpe, helpe ! ^ Wiggen sets upon the parish with a 
pike stafFe. 

^ Misprint for ' Corebus.' ^ Dogberry's distortion of words is about as old as English comedy. 
3 g. assure. * As above : — a gay, reckless fellow. 

5 According to Sir Walter Scott *'the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood 
in arms " is in the ballad of Beivick and Grabame, ** sworn brethren " as they are, each ** faith 
and troth ' ' to the other. 

6 That's settled once for all. — BuUen. 

" Recent editions make the Sexton's speech end here, and put the rest in the stage directions. 



I 



The Old Wives Tale 367 



EuMENiDES awakes and comes to theme 

Eum. Hould thy hands, good fellow. 

Core. Can you blame him, sir, if he take Jacks part against this 450 
shake-rotten parish that will not burie Jack. 

Eum. Why, what was that Jack ? 

Coreb. Who Jack, sir, who our Jack, sir ? as good a fellow as 
ever troade uppon neats leather. 

Wiggen. Looke you, sir, he gave foure score and nineteene 455 
mourning gownes to the parish when he died, and because he would 
not make them up a full hundred, they would not bury him ; was 
not this good dealing ? 

Churchwar. Oh Lord, sir, how he lies ; he was not worth a halfe- 
penny, and drunke out every penny : and nowe his fellowes, his 460 
drunken companions, would have us to burie him at the^ charge of 
the parish. And we make many such matches, we may pull downe 
the steeple, sell the belles, and thatche the chauncell. He shall lie 
above ground till he daunce a galliard about the churchyard for 
Steeven Loache. 465 

Wiggen. Sic argumentaris^ do?nine Loache ; — and we make many 
such matches, we may pull downe the steeple, sell the belles, and 
thatche the chauncell : in good time, sir, and hang your selves in 
the bell ropes when you have done. Domine oponens^ prcepono tihi hanc 
questionem^ whether you will have the ground broken, or your pates 470 
broken first ? For one of them shall be done presently, and to begin 
mine 2 He scale it upon your cockescome. 

Eum. Hould thy hands, I pray thee, good fellow; be not too 
hastie. 

Coreb. You capons face, we shall have you turnd out of the 475 
parish one of these dayes, with never a tatter to your arse ; then you 
are in worse taking then Jack. 

Eumen. Faith and he is bad enough. This fellow does but the part 
of a friend, to seeke to burie his friend \ how much will burie him ? 

Wiggen. Faith, about some fifteene or sixteene shillings will 480 
bestow him honestly. 

1 Below * the,' Sig. D. 

2 Open the argument from my side (with the aid of the pike-staff) . — Bullen. 



368 



The Old Wives Tale 



Sexton. I, even there abouts, sir. 

Eumen. Heere, hould it then, and I have left me but one poore 
three halfe pence; now do I remember the wordes the old man 
spake at the crosse : 'bestowe all thou hast,' — and this is all, — 'till 485 
dead mens bones comes at thy call.' Heare, holde it,^ and so farewell. 

Wig. God, and all good, bee with you sir ; naie, you cormorants. 
He bestowe one peale of^ Jack at mine owne proper costs and 
charges. 

Coreh. You may thanke God the long staffe and the bilbowe 490 
blade crost not your cockescombe. Well, weele to the church stile,* 
and have a pot, and so tryll lyll. 

Both. Come, lets go. Exeu?it. 

Fant. But harke you, gammer, me thinkes this Jack bore a great 
sway in the parish. 495 

Old woman. O this Jack was a marvelous fellow ; he was but a 
poore man, but very well beloved : you shall see anon what this 
Jack will come to. 

Enter the harvest men singings with women in their hands. 

Frol. Soft, who have wee heere ? our amorous harvest starres.^ 

Fant. I, I, let us sit still and let them alone. ^00 

Heere they begin to si?igy the song doubled.^ 

Soe heere we come a reaping, a reaping, 

To reape our harvest fruite. 

And thus we passe the yeare so long. 

And never be we mute. Exit the harvest men.^ 

Enter Huanebango and Corebus the clowne.^ 

Frol. Soft, who have we here ? 505 

Old w. O this is a cholerick gentleman ; all you that love your 

lives, keepe out of the smell of his two-hand sworde : nowe goes he 

to the conjurer. 

1 Recent eds. \Gi'vei money']. ^ See Appendix B. 

2 on. ^ Below ' men,' Sig. D ii. 

* harvesters. ^ B. points out that Corebus enters a moment later. 



The Old Waives Tale 369 

Fant, Me thinkes the Conjurer should put the foole Into a 
jugling boxe. 510 

Huan. Fee, fa, fum,i here is the Englishman, 
Conquer him that can, came for his lady bright, 
To proove himselfe a knight, 
And win her love in fight. 

Cor. Who-hawe, maister Bango, are you here? heare you, you 515 
had best sit downe heere, and beg an almes with me. 

Huan. Hence, base cullion, heere is he that commaundeth in- 
gresse and egresse with his weapon, and will enter at his voluntary, 
whosover saith no. 

A voice and flame offlre : Huanebango falleth downe. 

Voice. No. 520 

Old w. So with that, they kist, and spoiled the edge of as good 

a two hand sword, as ever God put life in ; now goes Corebus in, 

spight of the conjurer. 

E7iter the Conjurer y ^ strike Corebus blinde.^ 

Sacr. Away with him into the open fields. 
To be a ravening pray to crowes and kites : ^ 525 

And for this villain, let him wander up & downe 
In nought but darkenes and eternall night.* 

Cor. Heer hast thou slain Huan, a slashing knight, 
And robbed poore Corebus of his sight. Exit. 

Sacr. Hence, villaine, hence. 530 

Now I have unto Delya given a potion of forgetfulnes. 
That when shee comes, shee shall not know hir brothers. 
Lo where they labour, like to country slaves. 
With spade and mattocke on this inchaunted ground! 

1 " The ' fee-fi-fo-fum ' formula is common to all English stories of giants and ogres j it 
also occurs in Peele's play and in King Lear. . . . Messrs. Jones and KrofF have some 
remarks on it in their 'Magyar Tales,' pp. 340-341 ; so has Mr. Lang in his * Perrault,' 
p. Ixiii, where he traces it to the furies in ^schylus' Eumenides.'''' — Jacobs, Eng. Fairy 
Tales, p. 243. 

2 Recent eds. — Enter Sacrapant the Conjurer and Two Furies. 

3 Recent eds. — Huanebango is carried out by the Two Furies. 
* Recent eds. — Strikes Corebus blind. 



370 The Old Wives Tale 

Now will I call hir by another name, 535 

For never shall she know hir selfe againe, 

Untill that Sacrapant hath breathd his last. 

See where she comes. Enter Delya, 

Come hither, Delya, take this gode.^ 

Here, hard ^ at hand, two slaves do worke and dig for gold i 540 

Gore them with this & thou shalt have inough. 

He gives hir a gode. 

Del. Good sir, I know not what you meane. 

Sacra. She hath forgotten to be Delya, 
But not forgot the same ^ she should forget : 

But I will change hir name. 545 

Faire Berecynthia, so this country calls you, 
Goe ply these strangers, wench, they dig for gold. Exit Sacrapant. 

Delya. O heavens ! how am I beholding to * this faire yong man. 
But I must ply these strangers to their worke. 
See where they come. 550 

Enter the two Brothers in their shirts^ with spades, digging. 

1. Brother. O Brother, see where Delya is ! 

2. Brother. O Delya, happy are we to see thee here. 
Delya. What tell you mee of Delya, prating swaines ? 

I know no Delya nor know I what you meane; 

Ply you your work, or else you are like to smart. 555 

I. Brother. Why, Delya, knowst thou not thy brothers here ? 
We come from Thessalie to seeke thee forth. 
And thou deceivest thy selfe, for thou art Delya. 

Delya. Yet more of Delya ? then take this and smart : 
What, faine you shifts for to defer your labor ? 560 

Worke, villaines, worke, it is for gold you digg. 



2 In this and like cases the editors restore a tolerable metre by different printing. Thus 
* Here hard ' may be taken as part of the preceding line. 

3 Dr. Nicholson would read ' name ' to no advantage. Sacrapant says she has forgotten her 
name, but has not forgotten as much as she ought to forget. The phrase is awkward, but is 
perhaps more "intelligible" than Mr. BuUen allows. 

* Below *to,' Sig. D iii. 



5" 

I 

)5 



The Old Wives Tale 371 

2. Br. Peace, brother, peace, this vild inchanter 
Hath ravisht Delya of hir sences cleane, 
And she forgets that she Is Delya. 

/. Br. Leave, cruell'thou, to hurt the miserable; 565 

Digg, brother, digg, for she is hard as Steele. 

Here they dig ^ descry the light under a little hitu 

2~ Br. Stay, brother, what hast thou descride ? 

Del. Away & touch it not ; it is some thing that my lord hath 

hidden there. She covers it agen. 

Enter Sacrapant. 

8acr. Well sed,i thou plyest these py oners well. Goe, get you 570 
in, you labouring slaves. 
Come, Berecynthia, let us in likewise. 
And heare the nightingale record hir notes. Exeunt omnes. 

Enter Zantyppa, the curst daughter, to the Well^^ with a pot in hir hand. 

Zant. Now for a husband, house and home; God send a good 
one or none, I pray God. My father hath sent me to the well for 575 
the water of life, and tells mee, if I give faire wordes, I shall have 
a husband. 

Enter the fowle wench to the Well for water, with a pot in hir hand. 

But heere comes Celanta, my sweete sister; He stand by and heare 
what she sales. 

Celant. My father hath sent mee to the well for water, and he 580 
tells me if I speake faire, I shall have a husband, and none of the 
worst. Well, though I am blacke,^ I am sure all the world will not 
forsake mee ; and as the olde proverbe is, though I am blacke, I am 
not the divell. 

1 Dy. prints * Well done ! ' 

2 To the popular tale, here plainly drawn upon, Peele has added an amusing feature which 
seems to be his own invention. He provides the deaf Huanebango with a scolding wife, while 
the blind Corebus takes her ugly sister. 

3 As much as "uncomely," **ugly," as shown by the countless passages in Elizabethan 
literature, and the connotation of the opposite, "fair." Dyce quotes the same phrase, — 
"though I am blacke, I am not the Divell ..." from Greene's ^ip for an Upstart 
Courtier, 



372 The Old Wives Tale 

Zant. Marrie gup with a murren, I knowe wherefore thou 585 
speakest that ; but goe thy waies home as wise as thou camst, or 
He set thee home with a wanion. 

Her^ she strikes hir pitcher against hir sisters, and breakes them both and 

goes hir way. 

Celant. I thinke this be the curstest queane in the world. You see 
what she is, a Httle faire, but as prowd as the divell, and the veriest 
vixen that lives upon Gods earth. Well, He let hir alone, and goe 59^ 
home and get another pitcher, and for all this get me to the well 
for water. Exit. 

Enter two Furies out of the Conjurers cell and laies Huanebango by the Well 

of Life, 

Enter Zantippa with a pitcher to the Well. 

Zant. Once againe for a husband, & in faith, Celanta, I have got 
the^start of you. Belike husbands growe by the Well side. Now 
my father sayes I must rule my tongue : why, alas, what am I then ? 595 
A woman without a tongue is as a souldier without his weapon j 
but He have my water and be gon. 

Heere she offers to dip her pitcher in, and a head speakes in the Well. 

Head. Gently dip, but not too deepe,^ 
For feare you make the golden birde^ to weepe, 

Faire maiden, white and red, 600 

Stroke me smoothe, and combe my head, 
And thou shalt have some cockell bread. 

Zant. What is this, — Faire maiden white & red, 
Combe me smooth, and stroke my head, 

1 In Tbe Three Heads of the PFell, ** a golden head came up singing t — 

" ' Wash me and comb me, 
And lay me down softly. 
And lay me on a bank to dry, 
That I may look pretty 
When somebody passes by.* '* 

2 Sc. beard. 



J 



The Old Wives Tale 373 

And thou shalt have some cockell bread.^ 605 

Cockell callst thou it, boy ? — faith, He give you cockell bread. 

Shee breahes hir pitcher uppon his heade, then it thunders and lightens,^ and 
HuANEBANGO rises up : HuANEBANGO is dcafe and cannot heare.^ 

Huan. Phylyda phylerydos, Pamphylyda floryda flortos. 
Dub dub a dub, bounce quoth the guns, with a sulpherous hufFe 

snufFe.* 
Wakte with a wench, pretty peat, pretty love and my sweet prettie 6 10 

pigsnie; 
Just by thy side shall sit surnamed great Huanebango 
Safe in my armes will I keepe thee, threat Mars or thunder Olym- 
pus. 
Zant. Foe, what greasie groome have wee here? Hee looks as 615 
though hee crept out of the backeside of the Well ; and speakes Hke 
a drum perisht at the west end. 

Huan. O that I might, but I may not, woe to my destenie 
therefore,^ 
Kisse that I claspe, — but I cannot; tell mee my destenie where- 620 
fore ? 
Zant. Whoope nowe I have my dreame, did you never heare so 
great a wonder as this ? 
Three blue beanes in a blue bladder, rattle, bladder, rattle.^ 

1 The upshot of much investigation seems to be that the phrase to have cockell-bread means 
to get a lover or a husband. 

2 So in Hartmann's Iivein, a knight pours water from a certain well upon a stone near by ; 
a terrible thunderstorm is the immediate result. A similar act may bring the milder rain for 
one's crops (Grimm, Mythologie, p. 494). 

3 Harvey had an indifferent ear for verse, and here, perhaps, — since the hexameters follow 
so hard upon, — is a neat way of stating the fact. 

* Both Stanyhurst and Harvey were favorites for this sort of ridicule. The hexameters of 
the former are described admirably by Nash, and, of course, are parodied here. Huff, Ruff, 
and Snuff were characters in the play of King Cambyses. Cf. too Harvey in ** Green's Memo- 
riall or certain funerall sonnets " (Son. vi) : — 

" I wott not what these cutting Huffe-snuffes meane, 
Of alehouse daggers I have little skill. . . .'* 

^ Dy. points out that this is an actual line in Harvey's Encomium Lauri, 
6 Below < rattle,' Sig. E. 



374 The Old Wives Tale 

Huan. He nowe set my countenance and to hir in prose; it may 625 
be this rim ratn ruffe'^ is too rude an incounter. 

Let me, faire Ladie, if you be at leisure, revell with your sweetnes, 
and raile uppon that cowardly Conjurer, that hath cast me or con- 
gealed mee rather into an unkinde sleepe and polluted my carcasse. 

Zantyppa. Laugh, laugh, Zantyppa, thou hast thy fortune, a foole 630 
and a husbande under one. 

Huan. Truely, sweete heart, as I seeme, about some twenty 
yeares, the very Aprill of mine age. 

Zantyppa. Why, what a prating asse is this ? 

Huanebango. Hir corall lippes, hir crimson chinnc, 635 

Hir silver teeth so white within : 
Hir golden locks, hir rowling eye, 
Hir pretty parts, let them goe by : 
Hey ho, hath wounded me, 
That I must die this day to see. 640 

Za. By gogs bones, thou art a flouting knave. 
" Hir corall lippes, hir crimson chinne," ka, " wilshaw."^ 

Huan. True, my owne, and my owne because mine, h mine be- 
cause mine, ha ha ! Above a thousand pounds in possibilitie, and 
things fitting thy desire in possession. 645 

Zan. The sott thinkes I aske of his landes. Lobb^ be your 
comfort, and cuckold bee your destenie. Heare you, sir ; and if you 
will have us, you had best say so betime. 

Huan. True, sweete heart, and will royallize thy progeny with 

my petigree. Exeunt omnes. 650 

Enter Eumenides the wandring knight. 

Eu. Wretched Eumenides, still unfortunate, 
Envied by fortune, and forlorne by fate ; 

1 Used by Chaucer to describe the '* hunting of the letter," in his day still a normal rule of 
verse, particularly in the north of England (Pnlogue to the " Persone's Tale") : — 

" But trusteth wel, I am a suthern man, ■ 

I can not geste rum, ram, ruf, by letter. ..." H 

Professor Skeat {Notes to C. T., p. 446) thinks Peele has Chaucer in mind, and shows that 
the latter probably borrowed the words " from some French source." 

2 * Ka' = quoth he. — ' Wilshaw ' ? [Qy. : Will ich ha(ve) ? Cf. 1. 648. Gen. Ed.'\ 
8 Lob's pound, as B. notes, was a phrase of the day for " the thraldom of the hen-pecked 
married man." 



The Old Wives Tale 375 

Here pine and die, wretched Eumenides. 

Die in the spring, the Aprill of my i age ? 

Here sit thee down, repent what thou hast don: 655 

I would to God that it were nere begon. 

Enter Jacke.'^ 

Jacke. You are well overtaken, sir. 

Eum. Who's that ? 

Jacke. You are heartily well met, sir. 

Eum. Forbeare, I say, who is that which pincheth mee ? 660 

Jacke. Trusting in God, good Master Eumenides, that you are 
in so good health as all your friends were at the making hereof, 
God give you God morrovve, sir, lacke you not a neate, handsome 
and cleanly yong lad, about the age of fifteene or sixteene yeares, 
that can runne^ by your horse,^ and for a neede make your master- 665 
shippes shooes as blacke as incke, — howe say you sir? 

Eum. Alasse, pretty lad, I know not how to keepe my selfe, 
and much lesse a servant, my pretty boy, my state is so bad. 

^acke. Content your selfe, you shall not bee so ill a master but 
ile bee as bad a servant. Tut, sir, I know you, though you know not 670 
me. Are not you the man, sir, denie it if you can, sir,^ that came 
from a strange place in the land of Catita, where Jacke-a-napes flies 
with his taile in his mouth, to seeke out a Ladie as white as snowe, 
and as redd as blood •, ha, ha, have I toucht you now ? 

Eum. I thinke this boy be a spirit. 675 

How knowst thou all this? 

Jacke. Tut, are not you the man, sir, denie it if you can, sir, that 
gave all the money you had to the burying of a poore man, and but 
one three-halfe-pence left in your pursse ? Content you, sir, Ile serve 
you, that is flat. 680 

Eum. Well, my lad, since thou art so impornate, I am con- 
tent to entertaine thee, not as a servant, but a copartner in my 

1 It is hardly necessary to correct this into * thy.' 2 As a ghost, of course 

3 Below ' runne,' Sig. E ii. ' The - foot-page of the ba lads. 

6 These rhyming scraps remind one constantly of the cante-fable, of the formula-jmgles in 
popular tales. 



376 The Old Wives Tale 

journey. But whither shall we goe ? for I have not any money ^ 
more than one bare three halfe-pence. 

yacke. Well, master content your selfe, for if my divination bee 685 
not out, that shall bee spent at the next inne or alehouse we come 
too ; for maister, I knowe you are passing hungrie ; therefore He goe 
before and provide dinner untill that you come j no doubt but youle 
come faire and softly after. 

Eum. I, go before. He follow thee. 690 

Jack. But doo you heare, maister, doo you know my name ? 

Eum. No, I promise thee, not yet. 

Jack. Why, I am Jack. Exeunt Jack. 

Eum. Jack, why be it so, then. 

Enter the Hostes and Jack, setting meate on the table y and Fidlers came ^ to 
playy EuMENiDEs walketh up and dozvney and will eate no meate. 

Host. How say you, sir, doo you please to sit downe ? 695 

Eum. Hostes, I thanke you, I have no great stomack. 

Host. Pray, sir, what is the reason your maister is so strange } 
Doth not this meate please him ? 

Jack. Yes, hostes, but it is my maisters fashion to pay before 
hee eates, therefore a reckoning, good hostesse. 700 

Host. Marry shall you, sir, presently. Exit. 

Eum. Why, Jack, what doost thou meane, thou knowest I have 
not any money : therefore, sweete Jack, tell me what shall I doo. 

'Jack. Well, maister, looke in your pursse.^ 

Eum. Why, faith, it is a follie, for I have no money. 705 

Jack. Why, looke you, maister, doo so much for me. 

Eum. Alas, Jack, my pursse is full of money. 

Jack. ' Alas,' maister, — does that worde belong to this accident ? 
Why, me thinkes I should have scene you cast away your cloake, 
and in a bravado daunced a galliard round about the chamber; why, 710 
maister, your man can teach you more wit than this ; come, hostis 
cheere up my maister. 

Hostis. You are heartily welcome : and if it please you to eate 
of a fat capon, a fairer birde, a finer birde, a sweeter birde, a 
crisper birde, a neater birde, your worship never eate off. 715 

1 Probably a misprint for *come.' ^ Below 'pursse,' Sig. E iii. 



The Old Wives Tale 377 

Eum. Thankes, my fine eloquent hostesse. 

Jack, But heare you, maister, one worde by the way ; are you 
content I shall be halfes in all you get in your journey ? 

Eu7n. I am, Jack, here is my hand. 

Jack, Enough, maister, I aske no more. 720 

Eum. Come, hostesse, . receive your money, and I thanke you 
for my good entertainment. 

Host. You are heartily welcome, sir. 

Eum. Come, Jack, whether go we now ? 

Jack. Mary, maister, to the conjurers presently. 725 

Eu. Content, Jack : Hostis, farewell. • Exe. om. 

Enter Corebus and Zelanto^ the foule wench, to the Well for water. 

Coreh. Come, my ducke, come. I have now got a wife ; thou art 
faire, art thou not ? ^ 

Zelan, My Corebus, the fairest alive, make no doubt of that. 

Cor. Come, wench, are we almost at the wel ? 730 

Zela. I, Corebus, we are almost at the Well now ; He go fetch 
some water : sit downe while I dip my pitcher in. 

Voyce. Gently dip : but not too deepe ; 
For feare you make the goulde« beard to weepe. 

A head comes up with eares of come, and she combes them in her lap, 

Faire maiden, white and red, yor 

Combe me smoothe, and stroke my head, 

And thou shalt have some cockell bread. 

Gently dippe, but not too deepe. 

For feare thou make the gouldew beard to weep. 

Faire maide, white and redde, 740 

Combe me smooth, and stroke my head ; 

And every haire a sheave shall be. 

And every sheave a goulden tree. 

A head^ comes up full of golde, she combes it into her Lap, 

Zelan. Oh see, Corebus, I have combd a great deale of golde 
into my lap, and a great deale of corne. 74c 

1 Celanta. 2 pjg jg blind. 3 j^ the tale there are three heads. 



378 The Old Wives Tale 

Coreh. Well said, wench ; now we shall have just ^ enough. God 
send us coiners to coine our golde. But come, shall we go home, 
sweet heart ? 

Zelan. Nay, come, Corebus, I will lead you. 

Coreb. So, Corebus, things have well hit, 750 

Thou hast gotten wealth to mend thy wit» Exit. 

Enter Jack and the wandring knight. 

Jack. Come away, maister, come. 

Eum. Go along. Jack, He follow thee. 
Jack, they say it is good to go crosse-legged, and say his prayers 
backward : 2 how saiest thou? 755 

Jack. Tut, never feare, maister ; let me alone, heere sit you still, 
speake not a word. And because you shall not be intised with his 
inchanting speeches, with this same wooll He stop your eares : and 
so, maister, sit still, for I must to the Conjurer. Exit]d.ck, 

Enter the Conjurer to the wandring knight, 

Sa. How now, what man art thou that sits so sad ? 760 

Why dost thou gaze upon these stately trees, 
Without the leave and will of Sacrapant ? 
What, not a word but mum ? 
Then, Sacrapant, thou art betraide. 

Enter Jack invisible, and taketh off Sacrapants wreath from his head, and 
his sword out of his hand. 

Sac. What hand invades the head of Sacrapant ? 765 

What hatefull fury doth envy my happy state ? 
Then, Sacrapant, these are thy latest dayes. 
Alas, my vaines are numd, my sinews shrinke, 
My bloud is pearst,^ my breath fleeting away, 
And now my timelesse date is come to end : 770 

He in whose life his actions* hath beene so foule, 
Now in his death to hell descends his soule. 

He dyeth, 

1 Dyce's copy read 'tost.' Mr. P. A. Daniel : "Qy. : 'Toast' .?'* 

2 Milton, Comus, 817: ** backward mutters of dissevering power. " 

3 Mr. P. A. Daniel would read 'iced.' * Dy., 'Acts.' 



The Old Waives Tale 379 

Jack, Oh, sir, are you gon ? Now I hope we shall have some 
other coile. Now, maister, how like you this ? the Conjurer hee is 
dead, and vowes never to trouble us more. Now get you to your 775 
faire Lady, and see what you can doo with her. Alas, he heareth me 
not all this while \ but I will helpe that. 

He pulles the zvooll out of his eares. 

Eum. How now. Jack, what news ? 

Jack. Heere, maister, take this sword and dig with it, at the 

foote of this hill. 7^0 

He digs and spies a light. 

Eum. How now. Jack, what is this ? 

Jack. Maister, without this the Conjurer could do nothing, and 

so long as this light lasts, so long doth his arte indure, and this 
being out, then doth his arte decay. 

Eum. Why then. Jack, I will soone put out this light. 785 

Jack. I, maister, how ? 

Eum. Why with a stone He breake the glasse, and then blowe 

it out. 

Jack. No, maister, you may as soone breake the smiths anfill, 
as this little vyoll; nor the biggest blast that ever Boreas blew, 790 
cannot blowe out this little light ; but she that is neither maide,i 
wife, nor widowe. Maister, winde this home; and see what 
will happen. 

He windes the home. 

Heere enters Venelia and breakes the glasse, and blowes out the light, and 

goeth in againe. 

Jack. So, maister, how like you this ? This is she that ranne 
madding in the woods, his betrothed love that keepes the crosse; and 795 
nowe, this light being out, all are restored to their former libertie. 
And now, maister, to the Lady that you have so long looked 

for. 

He draweth a curten, and there Delia sitteth a sleepe, 

1 Below * maide,' Sig. F. 



k 



380 The Old Wives Tale 



1 



Eum. God speed, faire maide sitting alone : there is once. 

God speed, faire maide; there is twise : 800 

God speed, faire maide, that is thrise. 

Delia. Not so, good sir, for you are by. 

Jack. Enough, maister, she hath spoke; now I will leave her 
with you. 

Eum. Thou fairest flower of these westerne parts, 805 

Whose beautie so reflecteth in my sight. 
As doth a christall mirror in the sonne : 
For thy sweet sake I have crost the frosen Rhine,l 
Leaving faire Po, I saild up Danuby, 

As farre as Saba, whose inhansing streames 810 

Cuts twixt the Tartars and the Russians, — 
These have I crost for thee, faire Delia : 
Then grant me that which I have sude for long. 

Del. Thou gentle knight, whose fortune is so good, 
To finde me out, and set my brothers free, 815 

My faith, my heart, my hand, I give to thee. 

Eum. Thankes, gentle madame : but heere comes Jack ; thanke 
him, for he is the best friend that we have. 

Enter Jack with a head in his hand. 

Eum. How now. Jack, what hast thou there ? 

Jack. Mary, maister, the head of the conjurer. 820 

Eum. Why, Jack, that is impossible; he was a young man. 

Jack. Ah, maister, so he deceived them that beheld him : but 
hee was a miserable, old, and crooked man ; though to each mans 
eye h [e see] med young and fresh. For, maister, this Conjurer tooke 
the shape of the olde man that kept the crosse : and that olde man 825 
was in the likenesse of the Conjurer.^ But nowe, maister, winde 
your home. He windes his home. 

Enter Venelia, the two Brothers^ and he that was at the Crosse. 

Eu. Welcome, Erestus, welcome, faire Venelia,^ 
Welcome, Thelea, and Kalepha * both ! 

1 Dy. notes that this and the three following lines are taken almost verbatim from Greene's 
Orlando Furioso. 2 jt jg not necessary to adopt Mr. Daniel's emendation. 

3 Below * Venelia,' Sig. F ii. * Calypha. 



The Old Wives Tale 381 

Now have I her that I so long have sought, 830 

So saith faire DeUa, if we have your consent. 

I. Bro, VaUant Eumenides, thou well deservest 
To have our favours : so let us rejoyce, 
That by thy meanes we are at libertie. 

Heere may we joy each in others sight, 835 

And this faire Lady have her wandring knight. 

Jack. So, maister, nowe yee thinke you have done : but I must 
have a saying to you. You know you and I were partners, I to 
have halfe in all you got. 

Eum. Why, so thou shalt. Jack. 840 

Jack. Why, then, maister draw your sworde, part your Lady, let 
mee have halfe of her presently. 

Eumenid. Why, I hope, Jack, thou doost but jest ; I promist thee 
halfe I got, but not halfe my Lady. , , ^u 

Jack. But what else, maister ? have you not gotten her ? 1 here- 845 
fore devide her straight, for I will have halfe ; there is no remedie. 

Eumen. Well, ere I will falsifie my worde unto my friend, take 
her all ; heere Jack, He give her thee. 

Jacke. Nay, neither more nor lesse, maister, but even just halte. 

Eum. Before I will falsifie my faith unto my friend, I will divide 850 
hir ; Jacke, thou shalt have halfe. 

1. Brother. Bee not so cruell unto our sister, gentle knight. 

2. Brother. O spare faire Delia ; shee deserves no death. 

Eum. Content your selves ; my word is past to him j therefore 
prepare thy selfe, Delya, for thou must die. 855 

Delya. Then, farewell, worlde ; adew Eumenides. 

He offers to strike and Jacke stales him. 

Jacke. Stay, master ; it is sufficient I have tride your constancie. 
Do you now remember since you paid for the burying of a poore 
fellow ? „ . 

Eum. I, very well, Jacke. ^ »oo 

Jacke. Then, master, thanke that good deed for this good turne, 
and so God be with you all. 

Jacke leapes downe in the ground. 



382 The Old Wives Tale 

Eum. Jacke, what, art thou gone ? 
Then farewell, Jacke. 

Come, brothers and my beauteous Delya, 865 

Erestus, and thy deare Venelia : 
We will to Thessalie with joyfull hearts. 

All. Agreed, we follow thee and Delya. 

Exeunt omnes.^ 

Font. What, Gammer, a sleepe ? 

Old worn. By the Mas, sonne, tis almost day, and my windowes 870 
shut 2 at the cocks crow. 

Frol. Doo you heare. Gammer, mee thinkes this Jacke bore a 
great sway amongst them. 

Old worn. O, man, this was the ghost of the poore man, that 
they kept such a coyle to burie, & that makes him to help the 875 
wandring knight so much. But come, let us in : we will have a cup 
of ale and a tost this morning and so depart.^ 

Fant. Then you have made an end of your tale. Gammer ? 

Old worn. Yes, faith. When this was done, I tooke a peece of 
bread and cheese, and came my way, and so shall you have, too, 880 
before you goe, to your breakefast. 

1 That is, all the actors of the play within the play. Below * Omnes,'' Sig. F iii. 

2 Q., shuts. 3 Part. 



FINIS. 



Printed at London by yohn Danter^ for Rapb 
Hancocke, and John Hardie, and are to 
be solde at the shop over against 
Saint Giles his Church with- 
out Criplegate. 
1595- 



I 



APPENDIX 

A. Characters: their Sources. — T. Warton, in 1785 {Milton's Poems 
en Several Occasions) , pointed out that '*the names of some of the charac- 
ters as Sacrapant, Chorebus, and others, are taken from the Orlando Furioso.'"^ 
Peele quotes Ariosto freely near the end of Edward I. Storojenko (Grosart's 
Greeney I, 180) thinks the Sacrapant in Greene's Orlando Furioso **a very 
transparent parody of Tamburlainer Mr. Fleay, with some daring, asserts 
that Huanebango is travestied from Huon o' Bordeaux, and is *' palpably 
Harvey." Erestus, says the same authority, is from Kyd's^ Soliman and 
Perseda ; ** the play is evidendy full of personal allusions, which time only 
can elucidate." Mr. Ward remarks that Jack is ** namesake and rival of 
the immortal giant-killer." The classics, of course, are represented. War- 
ton remarked that the story of Meroe could be found in Adlington's trans- 
lation of Apuleius, I 566 ; but it is hardly necessary to go to such a source 
for the "White Bear of England's Wood." 

B. The Song of the Harvesters. — When the harvest-men enter agam, 
and sing the song ** doubled, " — as here, —it is evidendy the same thmg, 
a companion piece, only with reaping in place of sowing, and words to 
match : — 

**Lo, here we come a-reaping, a-reaping. 
To reap our harvest-fruit. 
And thus we pass the year so long. 
And never be we mute." 

Is it too much, then, to assume that the present song is to be restored some- 
what as follows ? — 

Lo here we come a-sowing, a-sowing. 

And sow sweet fruits of love. 
All that lovers be pray you for me, — 

In your sweethearts well may it prove. 

They would naturally enter with motions of sowing or of reaping, and the 
opening words would fit the acdon. Moreover, "In your sweediearts well 

383 



384 Appendix 

may it prove ' * must refer to requital not for the act of sowing, but for the 
prayers invoked. These craft-songs vv^ere common enough. In Summer s 
Last Will and Testament the harvest-men sing an old folk-song of this kind, 
if one may judge by the Hooky y hooky of the refrain, said by one of the Dods- 
ley editors (ed. 1825, IX, 41) to be heard still "in some parts of the king- 
dom." The curious in these matters may find valuable information about 
songs of labour in general, with imitative action and suitable refrains, in 
Bucher's Arbeit und Rhytbmus, Abhandlungen d. phil.-hist. Classe d. 
konigl. Sachsischen Gesell. d. Wissenschaften, Bd. XVII. 

Additional Note. — P. 368, 1. 491, for 'church stile,' P. A. Daniel queries 'church 
ale' ? — but see Overbury's Characters (^fVorks, p. 145), " A Sexton " : ' for at every church 
stile commonly ther's an ale-houee.' 



Robert Greene 



HIS PLACE IN COMEDY 



A Monograph by G. E. Woodberry^ 
Professor in Columbia University^ 
New Tork. 



GREENE'S PLACE IN COMEDY 

Of the group of gifted college-bred men who had some part in the 
fashioning of Shakespearian drama and drew into their mortal lungs 
a breath of the element whose " air was fame," Greene has long 
been marked with unenviable distinction. He had the misfortune 
to try to darken with an early and single shaft the rising sun of 
Shakespeare ; and he has stood out like a shadow against that dawn- 
ing genius ever since. The mean circumstances of his Bohemian 
career, and the terribly brutal, Zolaesque scene of his death-cham- 
ber — the most repulsively gruesome in English literary annals — 
have sustained with a lurid light the unfavourable impression ; and, 
were this really all, no one would have grudged oblivion the man's 
memory. The edition of his collected works, however, which 
Grosart gave to scholars, has enlarged general knowledge of Greene, 
and has permitted the formation of a more various image of his 
personality, a juster estimate of his literary temperament, and a 
clearer judgment concerning his position in the Elizabethan move- 
ment of dramatic imagination; and some few, even before this, had 
lifted up protestation against that ready damnation which seemed 
provided for him by his irreverence toward the undiscovered god 
of our idolatry who, then fleeting his golden days, seemed to this 
jaundiced eye " an upstart crow beautified with our feathers, . . . 
the only Shake-scene in a country." Never were more unfortunate 
words for the " blind mouth " that uttered them. But there is 
more to know of Greene than this one speech ; and though the 
occasion is not apt here for so complete a valuation of his charac- 
ter and temperament, his deeds and works, as is to be desired for 
truth's sake, yet it is needful to take some notice of his total 
personality as evinced in his novels, plays, poems, and pamphlets, 

387 



388 Greene s Place in Comedy 

in order to determine his relative station in the somewhat limited 
sphere of English comedy. 

Marlowe is commonly regarded as the forerunner of the heroic 
strain in Shakespeare, with moulding influence on the imaginative 
habit of his younger fellow-workman in respect to that phase of 
his art ; and Greene, who though he will never shine as a " morn- 
ing-star" of the drama was at least a twin luminary with Marlowe, 
has been credited with occupying a similar position as the fore- 
runner of Shakespeare with respect to the portrayal of vulgar life. 
It is hardly to be expected that an antithesis so convenient for 
the critics should be really matter-of-fact. The narrower dis- 
tinct claim that the Clown in his successive reincarnations passed 
through the world of Greene's stage on his way from his old fleshly 
prison in the Vice of the primitive English play may require less 
argument ; and in several other particulars it may appear that fore- 
gleams of the Shakespearian drama are discernible in Greene's 
works without drawing the consequence that Shakespeare was neces- 
sarily a pupil in every school that was open to him. Not to treat 
the matter too precisely, where precision is apt to be illusory even 
if attainable in appearance, was there not a plain growth of Greene 
as a man of letters closely attached to his time which will illustrate 
the general development of the age and its art, and naturally bring 
out those analogies between his work and Shakespeare's that have 
been thought of as formative elements in him by which his suc- 
cessor on the stage profited ? The line of descent does not matter, 
on the personal side, if the general direction of progress be made 
out. 

Greene was distinctively a man of letters. He was born with 
the native gift, and he put it to use in many ways. He tried all 
kinds of writing, from prose to verse, from song to sermon, and 
apparently with equal interest. He was college-bred and must have 
been of a scholarly and receptive temperament; he was variously 
read in different languages and subjects ; and he began by being what 
he charged Shakespeare with being, — an adapter. His tales, like 
others of the time, must be regarded as in large measure appropria- 
tions from the fields of foreign fiction. Even as he went on and 
gained a freer hand for expression, he remained imitative of others. 



I 



Greene s Place in Comedy 389 

with occasional flashes of his own talent ; and, dying young, he 
cannot be thought to have given his genius its real trial of thorough 
originality. In the main his work is derivative and secondary and 
represents or reflects literary tradition and example ; he was still in 
the process of disencumbering himself of this external reliance when 
he was exhausted, and perished \ and it is in those later parts of his 
work which show originality that he is attached to the Shake- 
spearian drama. Slight examination will justify this general state- 
ment in detail. It is agreed that he drew his earlier novels from 
the stock-fiction, with its peculiar type of woman and its moral 
lesson ; and he shows in these sensibility of imagination and grace 
of style. He was, more than has been thought, a stylist, a born 
writer; and this of itself would interest him in the euphuistic 
fashion, then coming to its height in Lyly ; and besides he always 
kept his finger on the pulse of the time and was ambitious to suc- 
ceed by pleasing the popular taste : he adopted euphuism tempo- 
rarily, employing^ it in his own way. In the drama his play, 
Orlando Furioso^ harks back to Ariosto, and it was when the stage 
rang with Tamhurlaine that he brought out Alphonsus^ King of 
Aragon^ and when Doctor Faustus was on the boards that he fol- 
lowed with Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay ; on Sidney's Arcadia 
succeeded his own Menaphon ; and if "James IV. with its Oberon 
preceded A Midsummer Night's Dream — which is undetermined — 
it was a unique inversion of the order which made Greene always 
the second and not the first. In view of this literary chronology 
it seems clear that in the start and well on into his career Greene 
was the sensitive and ambitious writer following where Italian 
tradition, contemporary genius, and popular acclaim blazed the 
way ; and in so doing his individual excellence lay not in origi- 
nality on the great scale, but in treatment, in his modification of the 
genre^ in his individual style and manner and purport — in the 
virtues, that is to say, of an able, clever, variously equipped man 
of letters whose talent had not yet discovered the core of genius in 
itself. 

It is observable, too, in the earlier period of his work, that in his 
treatment of his material so derived, he displays the qualities of the 
weaker, the less robust literary habit ; he uses refinement, he is 



390 Greenes Place in Comedy 

checked by his good taste, he strives for effects less violent, less sen- 
sational, less difficult in the sense that it requires less of the giant's 
strength to carry them off well. There is little, too, in this portion 
of his work which lets personality burn through the literary mould ; 
that belongs to his late and stronger time. It is true that his novels 
have a moral in them for edificatfon ; but, although he had the 
preacher's voice, it is not here in the earlier tales that it is heard ; 
it was the immemorial privilege of the Renaissance tale, however 
scandalous, to wear cowl and cassock. In the cardinal point of his 
delineation of female character, for which he is highly praised because 
of the purity and grace of the womanhood he presented, he follows 
the Renaissance convention, as it seems to me, but with refining 
and often true English touches — that ideal of Italian origin which 
is, on the whole, one of outline, of pale graciousness, of immobile 
or expressive beauty, pictorial; these women seem like lovely por- 
traits which have stepped down out of a frame, and have only so 
much of life as an environment of light and air an,d silence can give 
them. Are they not, for example, as truly like Spenser's women — 
except where Spenser's are differentiated by doing " manly " parts 
— as they are prophetic of Shakespeare's simpler types ? Greene, 
no doubt, incorporated in this ideal something of his own experi- 
ence of noble and patient womanhood, possibly as he had known 
it in his wife, as Shakespeare embodied eternal reality in his creations; 
but it would not occur to me to believe that Shakespeare found a 
model for Ophelia or Imogen in the Lady Ida and Dorothea, any 
more than in Una and her sisters. All these before Shakespeare are 
of one family — they are the conventionalized Renaissance ideal 
variously modified and filled with richer artistic life ; but in Shake- 
speare they pass into that clear luminous air where art and humanity 
are one thing. Greene should have our admiration for his sensibility 
to the tvpe, for the appreciation with which he drew it, for the charm 
he thereby clothed his pages with ; but as to there being a line of 
descent, that is altogether another thing ; and in respect to Greene 
himself, his special female characterization imports the element of 
refinement in him, the trait of the less robust literary habit just 
spoken of. Similarly, he was of too sound taste to be long content 
to speak in the cut phrase of euphuism, and he soon laid the fashion 



Greene s Place in Comedy 391 

off; and, in his afterplay on the Tamburlaine motive, it is a matter 
of debate whether he was parodying or rivalling Marlowe's large- 
languaged rhetoric, and, whichever he was doing, he was hampered 
by a better taste than his model, either laughing at it, or else with- 
out the giant's strength to succeed in the worser way; and to 
Doctor Faustus and Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, so far as they 
are compared, like remarks apply. Greene has his own virtues 
in all these instances, but they are not those of originating 
power, of creative overflow, of genius of the Elizabethan stripe; 
they live within the narrower circle of improvement through refined 
taste, or else of satirical protest or comparative failure due to the 

same trait. 

The thought of refinement in connection with Greene, the stress 
laid upon it here, has not been commonly prominent in writmgs 
upon him, and is out of harmony with our traditional impression ot 
him — the envious and dying profligate in his misery. Yet it is to 
be found not only in his early portraits of womanhood of the pure 
type (he afterward presented a baser one), nor in the fact often 
noted of the marked purity of his works ; but more pervasively in 
his continuing taste, in those habits and choices in the hterary held, 
those revolts and reforms, which show the steady rightness of the 
man in his self-criticism and his criticism ot current successes. 1 
seem to feel this innate refinement in the limpidity of single lines; 
but it is plain to every one in the lovely lyrics which have sung 
themselves into the hearts of all lovers of our poetry, those songs, 
found in all anthologies of English verse, which bear Greene s 
name. He was a gross man, living grossly, as all know; but it 
sometimes happens that in such fleshly natures — as, every one wiH 
at once think, in Ben Jonson — there is found this flower of deli- 
cacy, the very fragrance of the soul ; and so it was with Greene, 
and the Ivrics are the mortal sign of this inward grace. It belongs 
with this, as has been observed by several writers, that of all the 
men who preceded Shakespeare, Greene most lets the breath of the 
English country blow through his pages, and likes to lay his scene in 
some rural spot. He loved the country; and yet, here too, protest 
may well be made when it is said that in this he led the way tor 
Shakespeare; surely all country paths were open to the Warwickshire 



392 Greene s Place in Comedy 

lad in his own right ; nor need the difference be allowed that the 
forest of Arden is a conventionalized nature, as one critic main- 
tains, while Greene's is of the soil — that is to mistake art for con- 
vention; but to say even this one word in passing in behalf of 
Shakespeare's nature-reality is superfluous, except that it suggests the 
different road by which Shakespeare here, as well as in his dealing 
with madness, witchcraft, and fairyland (in all of which Greene is 
said to have taught him), went his own ways, irrespective of com- 
rades of the time. In this love of the country which Greene had 
lies the key to the better man in him and to his own native dis- 
tinctions. Beneath his literary temperament, which seems an edu- 
cational and professional veneer that should finally drop away, is 
his genuine nature — the man he was; and, life going on to immi- 
nent wreck, it became clear in his later works that he was more 
and more engaged in contemporary life, in what he saw and knew, 
and that he took his material from these ; he had written autobio- 
graphical sketches and accounts of low life and its characters, and 
he had displayed certain tendencies toward preaching and sympa- 
thies with the unredeemed masses of humanity, all somewhat mis- 
cellaneously, and without any other art than a strong prose style ; 
but, at the end, is it not manifest that he had grown into realism as 
his material, and into an attitude of moral denunciation and popular 
sympathy in dealing with it, and is not this the significance of his 
collaboration with Lodge in A Loo king- G las se for London and England^ 
and of his own unique George-a-Greene? All the earlier work seems 
to end, and new beginnings appear both in his renderings of con- 
temporary realism, and in his most imaginative and various play, 
James IV. 

The gradual substitution, then, as Greene came to his time of 
strength, of frank English realism for cultured Italian tradition and 
contemporary vital literary example, seems to be the true line of his 
growth. It shows distinctly in his choice of the English subject of 
Roger Bacon in place of Doctor Faustus, in his satire of certain 
aspects of court life, when he translated an Italian plot of Cinthio 
into apocryphal history as ya?nes IV.^ in his presentation of the state 
of London in collaboration with Lodge, and in the half-rebellious 
play of George-a-Greene. This is the imaginative and artistic side 



\ 



Greene s Place in Comedy 393 

of what is practical in his pamphlets of personal repentance and 
cony-catching. Personally I seem to detect Puritanism morally in 
the one half, and Puritanism politically in the other half, of this late 
dramatic work; but it cannot be maintained that the case is cer- 
tain. Apart from that, Greene was — what so few ever are, even 
in an Elizabethan environment — a humourist ; and he used the old 
English comedy tradition as an element in his purely English work. 
The matter is so plain and comparatively so slight as to require 
the fewest words. In comedy specifically he gave examples, which 
he may be said to have first given in the sense that he gave them in 
an original or a developed form, of the court fool in Ralph, of the 
country bumpkin or crass fool in Miles, of the highly developed and 
wholly humanized Vice in Adam, of a special humouristic type 
(aptly characterized as the ancestor of Andrew Fairservice) in 
Andrew, otherwise not born till Sir Walter Scott's day, and of the 
true Shakespearian clown, the unmistakable one, in Slipper. Such 
was his definite service to comedy in respect to type ; and criticism 
can only point it out, because the substance can be given only by 
reading the characters attentively. In regard to humour at large, it 
appears to me that in his hands, apart from linguistic felicity and 
wit, he presents a humour of situation tending toward pure farce, and 
a humour of intention tending toward pure satire of the social variety, 
and a humour of manners tending toward pure pleasantry as in the 
" Vail Staff" episode. The single link binding him with Shakespeare, 
in comedy is through the character of Slipper; and yet here, as in 
the other instances of female type, love of country scenes, and also 
in madness, witchcraft, and fairyland, I cannot believe that Shake- 
speare may not have arrived at his end — in this case, Launce — 
without necessarily being obliged to Greene for assistance. The 
bent toward contemporary realism, toward a well-languaged and 
winning clown, toward Englishry, which is another name for nature 
in human life and its setting, is plain in Greene ; this was the 
running of the stream ; but no larger inference follows from it in my 
mind than that Greene had worked out his growth, as Shakespeare 
in his apprenticeship also did, in similar directions, but that Greene 
had done it on national lines, whereas Shakespeare did it on uni- 
versal lines, that Greene had done it in a practical, whereas Shake- 



394 Greene s Place in Comedy 

speare did it in an ideal way, and that Greene had done it largely 
under personal conditions, being at war with his fate as a mere 
man, whereas Shakespeare did it as a human spirit above the reach of 
material vicissitude. What one owed to the other is an insignifi- 
cant detail at best ; what is important is to observe in Greene the 
advancing movement of the drama in moral intention, in higher 
characterization, in original phases of humanity, in humour of more 
body and intellect, in comedy and fantasy approaching the goal of 
the Elizabethan spirit. Greene, it must be acknowledged, opened 
some veins that no one followed up; some of his characters and 
much of his sympathies were his own in an unshared way ; but his 
work of all kinds ended with him, and, so far as he was an explorer 
of the way, he was most like one who, in our own time, may be an 
experimenter in some new force — his name is not associated with 
scientific history, with new invention, with discovery, but such suc- 
cess as he had was because his eye was on the element which men 
of his craft were working out more thoroughly than he himself. 

It is pleasant to close this brief note on one of the most unfor- 
tunate of men whom our literature remembers, with a kindlier appre- 
ciation of him than has hitherto obtained. The mere volume of 
his writings indicates great industry; the criticism of them wit- 
nesses our respect for his endowments, his taste, his fundamental 
manhood ; the analysis of them shows improvement in himself, and 
the power of mastery over the material given him in the direction 
of the true progress of art in his day ; the very violence of his fate 
or of his repentances suggests that the nature so ruined may have 
been of finer and better metal than those who died and made no 
such sign of conscious self-obstruction : there remain the ideal 
women, the clear-cut comedians, the lovely lyrics, to plead for him 
as an accomplisher of art; and, in view of this, may we not forget 
the unhappy incident that has made him like the flitting bat in the 
slow dawn of our golden poet, and remember the much that he, 
dying so young, at thirty-two, accomplished before the day of his 
disappointment, the night of his deserted solitude, and the tragic 
ignominy of his death ? 

G. E. WOODBERRY. 



i 

Robert Greene 



THE HONORABLE HISTORIE OF 
FRIER BACON 



Edited with Critical Essay and Notes 
by Charles Mills Gay ley, LL.D., 
Professor in the University of 
California, 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

Life. ^ — Robert Greene was born in Norwich of estimable parents, and 
<* in his non-age " sent there to school. He was entered November 15, 1575, 
at St. John's, Cambridge. According to his Short Discourse y he was even 
then **in his first yeares." We may, therefore, date his birth about 1560. 
At the university he ** light amongst wags " as lewd as himself, and was by 
them drawn, probably after he had taken his B.A., 1578, **to travell into 
Italy and Spaine." where he **practizde such villainie as is abhominable to 
declare." After his return (probably before Part I. of his Mamillia was 
entered for printing, October 3, 1580, — certainly by March 20, 1 581, 
when his ballad of Tout he "^ was registered), he ** ruffeled out in silks " posing 
as ** malcontent " ; but having in 1583,^ '' by degrees proceeded M.A.," he 
betook himself to London, where as ** Author of Playes and penner of Love 
Pamphlets" none soon was better known *'than Robin Greene." Perhaps 
he was in Cambridge, September 6, 1583, when the Second Part of Mamillia 
was registered, for it is dated **from my Studie in Clare hall." Till about 
August 13, 1584, he was writing similar tales ; and, desphe a dissolute habit, 
he maintained favour with some of honourable calling. His Pla?ietomachia 
appeared in 1585; an edition of his Morando ^ is licensed during the next 
year. Between 1584 and 1586 he visited his former home, made a fleeting 
effort at reform, married a *' proper young woman" of Lincolnshire, ^ had a 
son by her, ** cast her off," and returned to London. Here he gave himself 
** wholly to the penning of plaies," which with ** other trifling pamphlets" 
were henceforth his ** chiefest stay of living." Both kinds brought him popu- 

1 Greene's Groatsivorth and Short Discourse of My Life (appended to the Repentance). 
Grosart's Introduction and Storojenko's Life in Grosart's Greene, 12 vols., Huth Library; 
Dyce's Account of R. Greene and his PFriiings ; Bernhardi's R. Greene's Leben u. Schriften ; 
Ward's Hist. Engl. Dram. Lit. Also Grosart's Nashe and Harvey. 

2 Touthe Recalleth his Former Follies -with an Inward Repentance. Not extant. 

3 Clare Hall, July i. 
* First pub. 1584. 

5 If the Isabel in Ne-ver Too Late represents Greene's wife Doll, I may be pardoned for con- 
jecturing that the Caerbranck and Dunecastrum of that story stand for Corby and Donington, 
twelve miles apart, in Lincolnshire, near the Norfolk line. 

397 



398 Robert Greene 

larity and envy.^ In July, 1588, he was incorporated M.A. at Oxford. In 
February, 1589, this **arch play-making poet" steps forth in the role of 
patriot with his Spanish Masquerade ; soon after with his Mourning Garment 
(^S. R. November 2, 1590) in that of moralist. The didactic note had been 
already struck in The Royal Exchange, early in 1590, and the penitential 
in the Farewell to Follie (S. R. 1587; pub. 1591); but both prevail 
in Never Too Late,^ i 590. The disposition to serve the Commonwealth is 
further displayed in his series for the exposure of ** coosnage," 1591-92. 
Whatever else he had written he now counts for ** apples of Sodom." In 
July, 1592, he^ ** canvazed " the brothers Harvey in his Quip for an Upstart 
Courtier, but of this we have only the eviscerated remains. Soon afterward 
he indulged in that memorable surfeit of pickled herring and Rhenish wine. 
The ensuing sickness at the shoemaker's in Dow gate, — Greene's friendless 
lot, ** lousie circumstance," mistresse,* bastard, and corpse, — Gabriel Har- 
vey^ has embalmed with the foul peculiar juices of his spite. Those last 
weeks Greene spent writing his Groatsworth of Wit whj^h is partly, and 
his Repentance which is wholly, autobiographical, to dissuade men from a Hke 
** carelesse course of life." He sent back their son to his wife ; and the night 
of his death received ** comm'endations " from her ** whereat he greatly re- 
joiced," and wrote a pathetic farewell. That was September 3, 1592. 
Mrs. Isam, his hostess, garlanded the dead poet with bays ; and he was 
laid in the New Churchvard, near Bedlam. 

Misapprehensions concerning Greene. — On the title-page of Plane- 
tomachia^ 1585, Greene subscribes himself "Student in Phisicke " ; 
and from this it has been inferred by most of his biographers 
that he was then studying medicine. But for Greene, as for 
Chaucer and Gower, whom he diligently perused, ' phisicke ' some- 
times meant natural philosophy,^ and always included a ground- 

1 See Prefaces to Perimedes [S. R. March 29, 1588) ; PanJosto, pub. 1588 5 Menaphon, 
pub. August 1589 (perhaps before July, 1588) j and Ciceronis Amor^ pub. 1589. The dates 
are of historical importance. 

2 Pbilomeluy 1592, is of earlier style and composition. 

3 As " chiefe agent of the companie " of poets and writers (Lyly, Nashe, Greene, and 
probably Lodge and Peele) whom Richard Harvey in his Lamb of God had *' mistermed 
piperly makeplaies and make-bates." Nashe, Strange Ne%vesy etc. 

4 Sister to Cutting Ball, *' trust under a tree " at Tyburn. 

5 Foure Letters and Certain Sonnets, London, 1592. 

6 '* Physique is . . . to techen . . . of everichon '' (herbs, stones, etc.), 

*' That ben of bodely substaunce 
The nature and the substance." 

— GowER, Cortf. Am.y VII. 



Robert Greene 399 

ing in ' astronomic' i The word is here used with reference to the 
' magic natural ' of his subject, — the book being a narrative dispute 
of astrological influences. 

According to popular assertion, substantiated by the arguments 
of Dyce, Fleay, Grosart, and others, Greene was at one period a 
parson. Careful investigation convinces me that this assertion is 
untrue. Our dramatist cannot have been the Robert Greene who, 
as unus Capellanorum nostrorum Capellce nostras Regies^ was in 1576 
presented by Elizabeth to the rectory of Walkington in Yorkshire ; 
for at that time he was but a freshman at Cambridge. Nor can 
he 2 have been the Robert Greene who from June 19, 1584, to 
February 17, 1586, was Vicar of Tollesbury in Essex; because 
according to his own story ,2 that period was covered by other events : 
to wit, the conviction of sin in St. Andrew's at Norwich (while he 
was yet "newly come from Italy," end of 1584 or beginning of 
1 585), a " motion " which vastly amused his " copesmates," but lasted 
" W(? longer than the present time'' ; the relapse; the marriage "soon 
after to a gentleman's daughter" (sometime in 1585); the brief 
sequel of "wickedness" during which he "spent up" his wife's 
marriage-money; the "casting off" of the wife ; and ^he return to 
play-writing in London. This last, six years before his death ; 
therefore in 1586. Such manner of life is not that of the Vicar of 
Tollesbury; nor is the recital that of Greene if he ever was vicar 
of anything. 

Mr. Fleay* attempts to identify Greene, as Robert the parson^ 
with one Robert Persj or Rupert Persten of Leicester's troupe 
acting between December, 1585, and July, 1587, on the Continent. 
There is, however, no proof that Greene was with these "instru- 
mentalists and acrobats " ; nor is the name Persj or Persten^ as it 
appears in the Danish and Saxon records, either the English name 
Parson or a translation of the calling of parson into Danish or 

1 Chaucer, Prol. C. T., 414-420. 

2 As Dr. Grosart thinks he was. 

3 In Grosart : XII. 174-179, Short Discourse of the Life, etc., which has every mark o{ 
authenticity. 

^ Life of Sh.^ 92, 105; Hist. Stage, 825 but cf. Cohn, Shakesp. in Germany, xxi-xxxi 
(1865), and Creizenach, Schauspiele d. tngl. Kom'odianteny ii-iv (Kiirschner, Nat. Litt. 
Bd. XXIII). 



400 Robert Greene 

German. Actor King became Koning and Kcnigk^ and actor Pope, 
Pape and Pabst^ — but Persj, Percy, Persten, or Preston was untrans- 
latable. Indeed, if the argument proves anything, it proves too 
much. For if Mr. Fleay's Persten (or as he coerces it, Priester) 
is Greene, Vicar of ToUesbury, this Vicar must have been acting 
abroad three months of the period during which he was preaching at 
home ; — a dual activity terminated, moreover, not by the vestry 
of ToUesbury, which would appear to have enjoyed this unusual 
programme, or by the bishop, but by the Vicar himself, whose 
resignation is recorded as " free and spontaneous." ^ 

It is certainly safer to accept Greene's own story and the pub- 
lishers' records, which, taken together, show that his marital estate 
was a debauch with rare intervals of business activity. During this 
period Arhasto and the enlarged Morando were registered and Planeto- 
machia was printed. 

A writer of Greene's self-exhibitive temper would not have 
hesitated, and one of his didactic tendency could not have failed, 
to present the world with an account of an episode which, if it 
existed, was the most sensational of his moral experiences. But in 
none of his writings, autobiographical, or quasi-autobiographical, 
does Greene give even remote intimation of taking orders. On the 
contrary he speaks as a layman, and a very wicked layman, too ; as 
one who from infancy was bred in sin, and who held aloof from 
God's ministers. So far was he from the possibility of orders that 
when, in his youth, " once and yet but once " he " sorrowed for 
his wickedness of life," his comrades could conceive of no huger joke 
in the world than to wish that he " might have a pulpit." Roberto 
of the Groatsivorth^ " whose life in most part agreed" with his, was 
never a minister, nor was either of Greene's other understudies, 
Philador and Francesco. In Greene' s Vision^ which, whether authentic 
or not, is contemporaneous, the advice given to our dramatist " Be a 
devine, my sonne," is dismissed as out of the question, though that 
consummation were most devoutly to be desired. None of his asso- 
ciates of later years ^ betrays acquaintance with his ministerial career, 

1 Bp. Grindal's Register, fol. 225, as in Grosart, I. Prefatory Note. 

2 See respectively Ha've ivith You, and Strange Nezues ; To the Gent, readers of The 
Repentance, I 59^5 ^ Knight's Conjuring, Ch. IX. 1607 ; Hierarchic of the Blessed Angels, 
1635 ; Kind-Hart' s Dreame, 1592. 



Robert Greene 401 

not Nashe or Burbye or Dekker or Heywood or Chettle. None of 
his panegyrists. And of his enemies not even Gabriel Harvey. 

We may therefore conclude that the famous passage in Martine 
Marsixtus which (with a context partly relative to Greene) announces 
that " every red-nosed minister is an author " does not apply to 
Greene, but to any " unauthorized author who serves a drunken 
man's humor," or that the insinuation has reference to some sobri- 
quet born of Greene's paroxysms of pentitence and mourning pam- 
phlets. And, indeed, a nickname may have attached itself to this 
wayward child of circumstance, as early as that critical period in 
Norwich when his copesmates called him " Puritane and Presi- 
zian . . . and other such scoffing tearmes." What more likely 
than " Parson," since they had gone so far, Greene tells us, as to 
wish him a pulpit? But if he had a pulpit, what becomes of the 
joke? and of his own word — "the good lesson went quite out of 
my remembrance ... I went forward obstinately in my misse " ? 

As to the manuscript notes in the 1599 copy of The Pinner of 
Wakefield^ the first of which states that Shakespeare said that the 
play was "written by ... a minister who ac[ted] ye piiiers pt in it 
himself," and the second, in another hand, that Juby said that " ys 
play was made by Ro. Gree[ne]," — it must be remembered that 
both attributions are hearsay ; that both notes are anonymous \ 
that one or both may be fraudulent ; that there is no certain proof 
that they were written by contemporaries ; and finally that, unless 
their contents are shown to be accurate as well as authentic, and 
to refer to the same author, they do not connect any Robert Greene 
with the ministry. Since our Greene's writings show that he was 
no minister, there is but one hypothesis upon which, assuming the 
accuracy and relevancy of both these manuscript notes, he can be 
the person indicated; namely, that the designation, minister, used 
by Shakespeare, was a nickname. And, conversely, Shakespeare's 
remark can be credited in its literal significance only if the play was 
not by our Greene. In the latter event, the attribution of author- 
ship to a minister, taken in connection with Ed. Juby's attribution 
to a certain Ro. Greene, would denote some parson-playwright to 
whom no other play has been traced — Robert of Walkington, or 
Robert of Tollesbury, or some other of this not unusual name. 

2D 



402 Robert Greene 

And in that case it would be easy to understand how the name of 
an obscure author, if mentioned by Shakespeare, should have slipped 
the memory of the title-page scribe. Internal evidence, as will 
later be seen, is not conclusive of Greene's authorship; but even if 
it were, it would not prove that he was a minister. 

It may be conceded that, like other Elizabethan dramatists, he 
assumed a part upon the stage. But that he adopted the calling, or 
ever stood a chance of enjoying " its damnable excessive gains," is 
only less improbable than that he was a parson. Dyce's quotation 
from Harvey to the effect that Greene was '•'a player" misappre- 
hends the "puissant epitapher " who was merely enumerating the 
"thousand crotchets" that littered Greene's "wilde head, and 
hence his stories." ^ None of his contemporaries hints that Greene 
was an actor ; none regards him in that light. He himself despised 
the profession. 

In respect of his relations with Shakespeare, I cannot but feel 
that he has been harshly judged. We shall be justified in calling 
the Shakescene remarks unduly rancorous when it has been ascer- 
tained that the " admired inventions " of Greene and of those whom 
he was addressing in the Groatsworth had not been borrowed by the 
young actor-playwright ; or that Greene should have let himself 
be plundered without protest by this revamper of plays because the 
revamper was destined some day to be illustrious, in fact to be the 
Shakespeare. I have not observed that dramatists et id omne genus^ 
nowadays, offer the cheek with any more Christian grace than 
characterized Robert Greene. 

His Development as a Dramatist: Order of Plays.^ — A painstaking 
investigation of the evidence leads me to conclude that none of 
the plays assigned to Greene was produced before the end of 1586, 
or, probably, the beginning of 1587; that their order is as fol- 
lows : Jlphonsus^ Looking- Glasse^ Orlando^ Friar Bacon^ 'James IV. ; 
and that if Selimus and the Pinner are his, they range respectively 
with Alphonsus and James. 

1 Dyce, Account of Greene^ pp. 35, 365 arid Harvey's Foure Letters, pp. 9, 25. 

2 Brown (Grosart's Greene, Vol. I., Introduction, xi. et seq.) arranges : A., O.F., and 
F. B. (1584-87) ; Jas. IV., and Pinner (1590-91) ; L. — G. (1591-92). Storojenko 
(Grosart,!., 167-226) arranges : ^. {ifter Tambur I., i 587-88), 0., and L. — G. (1588-89)5 
Jas. IV., F. B., Pinner (1589-92). 



Robert Greene 403 

I. The earliest extant exemplar of The Comicall Hhtorie of 
Alphonsus^ King of Aragon^ by R. G.,^ and without motto, " as it hath 
bene sundrie times acted " was " brinted " by Thomas Creede, Lon- 
don, 1599. The play is generally supposed to have been written 
in emulation of the Tamhurlaine^ which was on the stage in 1588, — 
perhaps, indeed, as early as the end of 1586.2 While similarity of 
diction and conceit might indicate a contemporaneous production, 
the lines in Alphonsus^ — 

<* Not mighty Tamburlaine, 

Nor soldiers trained up amongst the wars," * 

are proof presumptive of the priority of Marlowe's play. Indeed, 
Dr. Grosart is justified in asserting that " to take Alphonsus without 
a tacit reference to Tamburlaine is to miss the entire impulse of its 
writer"; for the dramatist appears to be attempting a burlesque; 
and the vainglorious claim that he makes for his hero* is a mani- 
fest challenge to Marlowe and that bombastic brood. Greene may 
have been writing the play as early as 1587 ; he was, at any rate, 
interested in the hero then, for he mentions him in the Dedication to 
The Carde of Fancie.^ That the Alphonsus was well known in the 
early spring of 1589 would appear from an allusion in Pcele's Fare- 
well^ which couples it with Tamburlaine so closely as further to 
suggest that it already clung Hke a burr to its magniloquent prede- 
cessor. Whether the series of satiric reprisals in which, between 
1588 and 1590, Greene and Nashe indulged at Marlowe's expense," 
was stimulated by some counter-burlesque of Alphonsus is uncertain; 
but that Marlowe shortly before March 29, 1588, had been privy 
to some public burlesque of a production of Greene's, may reason- 
ably be inferred from Greene's preface to the Perymedes of that date. 

1 No mention of the M.A., which is given when his name is attached to other plays. 
Alphonsus is neither mentioned by Henslowe, nor recorded S. R. 

2 Acted by the Admiral's men, 1587, according to Fleay. Ep. to Menapbon^ which refers 
to it, may have been written as early as 1587 (Storojenko). 

* Act. IV, 5 the lines 1578, 1579 do not look like additions. 

* Prologue to Alph., 1, 28. 5 Ward, E. D. L. I. 324 n. 

* To the Famous and Fortunate Generals: ^^ Mahomet' s poiu and mighty Tamberlaine " 
(see Fleay, Life of Shakesp., pp. 96-97). 

"^ See Perymedes, Menaphon, Anatomie af Ahsurditie, and the opening of Greene'' s Vision 
(written before 1590). 



404 Robert Greene 

For there we learn that two " gentlemen poets " had recently caused 
two actors to make a mockery of his motto Omne tulit punctum^ 
because his verse fell short of the bombast and blasphemy with 
which Marlowe captivated the vulgar. If it was the verse of the 
Alphonsus that was derided by these " madmen of Rome," we have 
here a date before which the play had been both acted and bur- 
lesqued. Now, it is interesting to note that our earliest copy of 
Alphonsus (1599) has neither motto nor colophon. This is strange, 
for in all other respects the edition is uniform with that of 'James IV.^ 
which had been brought out by the same publisher, Creede, only 
the year before, with Greene's Omne tulit punctum upon its title- 
page. In fact, all other plays written by Greene alone, and bearing 
his name, have a motto of some kind. One may naturally query 
whether it was to Creede's advantage to dissociate this particular 
play from some eleven or twelve years' old derision ; or, whether he 
was following, without definite purpose, the policy of some previous 
edition, now lost, which likewise had omitted the motto. 

Be this as it may, there is, in the preface of March 29, 1588, 
undoubted allusion^ to Greene and Lodge's Looking-Glasse^ which, 
as will presently be shown, was written before June, 1587. The 
Alphonsus must be assigned to a still earlier date, because, in its pro- 
logue,^ it gives evidence of priority to Greene's other efforts in 
serious or heroic style. This conclusion is confirmed by an exam- 
ination of the play. The copious crude employment of mytho- 
logical lore, the creaking mechanism of the plot, the subordination 
of vital to spectacular qualities, betray an inexperience not mani- 
fest in Greene's other dramatic output. Moreover, in spite of 
the fact that our edition of Alphonsus appears to preserve the details 
of the author's holograph, the versification makes a clumsier show- 
ing than in the rest of his plays. The lines are frequently 
rhymed, sometimes within the speeches, but more often in a per- 
functory fashion at speech-ends. And, though this practice wanes 
as the play proceeds, the verses are throughout more frequently end- 

1 "The mad preest of the sonne." 

2 Venus's lines, 40-45, which would place this play after a series of love pamphlets, and 
before the treatment of graver themes. See Simpson, 2 : 352. Mr. Fleay unhesitatingly 
assigns its production to 1587 {Life of Sbakesp.^ pp. 96, 97). 



Robert Greene 405 

stopped, and the rhythm more mechanical, than in the other dramas. 
Between two-thirds and three-quarters of the lines have the monoto- 
nous caesura at the end of the second foot ; and of the lyric cae- 
suras, which should par excellence lend variety to the verse, about 
eleven-twelfths fall in the middle of the third foot. We may 
indeed say that in four-fifths of the lines these sources of same- 
ness prevail. Of prose there is no sign. Both in material and 
style the play is inelastic, only too easily open to attack. That 
Greene should prefix the Omne, tul'it punctum of his popular prose 
romances was natural, but it was also courting the attack of 
Marlowe, Kyd, or any gentleman-poets derisively inclined. 

2. A Looking-Glasse for London and England made by Thomas 
Lodge, Gentleman, and Robert Greene, in Artihus Magister^ is 
called by Professor Brown the " finest and last " of the plays in which 
Greene had a hand, and is assigned to a date " after Lodge's return 
from Cavendish's expedition in 1 59 1 •" This conjecture may at once 
be dismissed,^ for that expedition did not start till August 26, 1591 ; 
none of its ships returned before June 11, 1593 ' ^"^' ^7 ^^^^ time, 
Greene was dead. The play was registered in May, 1594, and 
our earliest exemplar (Creede) was printed in the same year. 
Henslowe records the presentation of the play, but not as new, 
March 8, 1591-92. We have abundant proof of its popularity. 
Therefore, since only four representations are recorded during the 
remainder of that season, which lasted till June 22, 1592,^ it must 
have had its run at an earlier date. Spencer's line in The Tears of 
the Muses^ 1 59 1, about the " pleasing Alcon " has been regarded as 
an allusion to Lodge's authorship of that character in the Looking- 
Glasse y and with some show of reason, for nearly all the speeches 
of Alcon are distinctively the work of Lodge.^ But an earlier remi- 



1 See for this, Grosart, Introd. xxv. xli. ; Simpson, 2: 382 ; and Ward. 

2 Cf. The Knack, etc., which as a << new " play was acted thrice in the fortnight ( Hemloive). 

3 Fleay assigns << most and best" of the play to Lodge. Grosart disagrees, but does not 
specify. A comparative investigation satisfies me that only the following passages can be assigned 
to Lodge : Sc. iii. (Dy., pp. 120-1225 Gros., 11. 319-480) Usurer, Thrasyb., Alcon, as far 
as Enter Remilia ^ Sc. v. (Dy., pp. 124-1265 Gros., 11. 654-868) Alcon, Thr., Lawy., 
Judge, Usur., as far as Enter Adam y Sc. vii. (Dy., pp. 129, 1 30 5 Gros., 11. 1070-1169) 
Jonas, Angel, Merchants, etc. 5 Sc. x. (Dy., pp. 134, 1 35 5 Gros., 11. i 512-1604), Mer- 
chants, etc. 5 Sc. xiii. (Dy., pp. 138-139 5 Gros., 11. 1900-2020) Thr., Alcon, etc. — Sc. viii. 



4o6 Robert Greene 

niscence of the play may be found in Greene's mention of Ninevie 
and Jonas in the dedication and epilogue of the Mourning Garment^ 
1590. Since it appears, moreover, from a passage in Scillaes Meta- 
morphosis^ that Lodge had renounced play-writing as early as 1589,^ 
Storojenko and Grosart date the composition of Looking-Glasse 
between the close of 1588 and the summer of 1589. I am sure 
that the date was earlier still \ for, since the Metamorphosis followed 
immediately upon Lodge's return from a voyage with Captain 
Clarke to Tercera and the Canaries, any such playv/riting as that 
of the Looking-Glasse must have been done before the departure of 
this expedition. According to Mr. Lee,^ the Expedition sailed 
" about 1588." Now the play contains no allusion to the Armada ; 
it is, therefore, antecedently improbable that it was written in 1588 
later than the 2gth of May. And since a modernized morality of 
God's wrath impending over London, if written in that year, 
could not have failed to echo the first mutterings of the Spanish 
thunderstorm, I am led to fix the composition before June, 1587, 
when Philip and Sixtus concluded their treaty against England. 

The date of first presentation must have been appreciably before 
March 29, 1588, for a character, the 'priest of the sun,' which 
figured in the Looking-Glasse^ but "in no other early play," ^ is 
mentioned in the introduction to Perymedes^ already cited. Here, 
Greene asserts that even if his verse did not always " jet upon the 

(Dy., p. 130 5 Gros., 11. 1180-1363) Alcon, etc., to Exit Samia, shows signs of Lodge prin- 
cipally, but some of the lines are Greene's. In general, each of the prophetic interludes is by 
the author of the scene preceding. E.g. 11. 1 591-165 3, Jonas, Angel, Oseas, by Lodge. 
From 1. 2020 all is by Greene 5 therefore most of Jonas. 

1 He vows : — 

** To write no more of that whence shame doth grow 
Or tie my pen to penny-knaves delight. 
But live with fame and so for fame to write." 

2 Nat. Diet. Biog.y art. Lodge. 

* Fleay, Life of Shakesp., p. 98. Mr. Fleay, conjecturing that Lodge was associated with 
Marlowe in the attack upon Greene's unsuccessful heroic play, and that Lodge is satirized under 
the [Perymedes) mention of the *'mad preest," assigns the L.-G. to a later date. But we find 
no evidence of coolness between Lodge and Greene during 1588 and 1589. On the contrary. 
Lodge prefixes to the Span. Masquer. [S. R. February i, i 589), verses calling Greene his doux 
ami and compagnon de Dieux^ and rejoices to be associated with his fame. The friendship was 
still fresh when Greene died. Lodge was not the "mad preest." Nor can I adopt Mr. Fleay's 
other conjecture {Biog. Chron. II. 31) that the "preest" was Hieronimo. 



Robert Greene 407 

stage in tragicall buskins," or his ^^everie worde " blaspheme, he 
could, an he pleased, fill the mouth " like the fa-burden of Bo-Bell, 
daring God out of heaven with that Atheist Tamburlan " ; and, 
by way of proof, he sets side by side with Tamburlan, the impious 
ranting of his own " mad preest of the Sonne." The reference is, 
of course, to the scene in the Looking-Glasse^ where the mitred 
priests of the sun, " carrying fire in their hands," hail Rasni as a 
" deitie " ; ^ and he assumes that the mention of one of the char- 
acters will indicate the play, — a justifiable expectation if the play 
had been before the public for nine or ten months. 

Though affected by its moral configuration, the Looking-Glasse 
is well constructed. In plot, characterization, manners (especially 
those of low life), in worldly wisdom and fervour, it leaves Alphon- 
sus far behind. The subtler handling of classical adornment and 
the bubble of the humour would, of themselves, justify us in assign- 
ing it to the same period with Orlando and Friar Bacon. The 
advancing maturity is manifest also in its verse and prose. I do 
not attribute Greene's improvement in blank verse entirely to 
Lodge's cooperation; for Lodge's verse in the Civill War^ 1587, 
was not markedly easier than that of the Alphonsus^ and his verse in 
this play 2 is but a trifle more elastic than in the Civill War. Tak- 
ing at random fifty-seven of Greene's verses,^ I find that some fifty- 
two avoid the monotone, and, of these, no fewer than twenty-five 
escape the penthimimeral caesura as well. In other words, five- 
sixths of the rhythms are free, and one-half of these skilfully varied. 
In the prophetic verses the monotone is properly more prevalent. 
About thirty per cent of Greene's have it. But even there almost 
half of the ' free ' rhythms display artistic handling. Speech-end 
rhythms are fewer than in Jlphonsus ; rhyme, indeed, is altogether 
less in evidence — except in the prophetic rhapsodies. Lodge's 
lines for Oseas rhyme, however, more than Greene's for Jonas. 
Not only is the proportion of prose larger than in any other of 

1 The direction A hand, etc., might well follow close upon "tempt you me?" of line 
1764. The passage, 11. 1764-1782, interrupts a scene otherwise sufficient to itself, with a 
pageant of supernumeraries whose utterance is a veritable "fa-burden." The bit looks almost 
like an afterthought, aping Marlowan style; but it is manifest Greene, not Lodge. 

2 For the distribution of authorship, see note 3, p. 405. 

3 Lines 80-116, 481-508. 



4o8 Robert Greene 

Greene's plays, — a feature which is, perhaps, due to the fact thaN 
each collaborator had his own set of mechanicals to exploit, — but the 
style of it is more conversational than in any preceding English play. 

3. Our earliest impression of Orlando Furioso^ One of the Twelve 
Peeres of France^ " as it was playd before the Queenes Maiestie," 
is published by Burbye, 1594. It had been entered for Danter, 
December 7, 1593, ^^^ ^^^ transferred to Burbye on the ensuing 
May 28. He issued a second edition in 1599.1 Greene was 
accused in 1592^ of having sold the play to the Lord Admiral's 
men while the Queen's companv, to which he had previously dis- 
posed of it, was " in the country." Now the Queen's men had 
acted at court for the last time, December 26, 1591 ; and they 
did not reappear in London till April, 1593.^ ^"^ ^^^ Admiral's, 
meanwhile (February, 1592), had entered into a temporary alliance 
with Lord Strange's,* through Henslowe and Edw. Alleyn ; and 
under the auspices of the latter company almost immediately 
(February 21) the Orlando was acted in one of Henslowe's theatres.^ 
It was already an old play ; and Henslowe records no later perform- 
ance. During the same period three or four other plays formerly 
belonging to the Queen's passed into the hands of Lord Strange's 
company.^ The date of the second sale of Orlando would accord- 
ingly seem to have been during January or February, 1592. It 
appears, then, that up to December 26, 1591, it belonged to the 
Queen's men ; and it had probably been presented at court by them, 
for its classical and Italian features were evidently from the first 
designed to suit her Majesty's taste." 

That the play was written later than July 30, 1588, may be 
deduced from a mention (11. 89-95) of the "rebate" of "mightie 
Fleetes " which " Came to subdue my Hands to their king ; " for 
the allusion to the Armada is historically minute (note the conjunc- 
tion of ' Portingale ' with ' Spaniard ' in reference to the start from 
Lisbon), the sequence does not savour of afterthought or actor's 
clap-trap, and the theme receives attention in other parts of the 

1 Grosart, XIII. vii., and Arber's S. R. there quoted. ^ Fleay, Hht. Stage, pp. 76-82. 

2 By the author of The Defence of Connycatching. * Lee, Life of Shakespeare, p. -37, 
^ Probably the Rose ,• Henslowe's Diary. For AUeyn's copy of the title role see Dyce, ed 0. F. 
^ Fleay, Life of Shakespeare, p. 108. '^ So Ulrici and Storojenko 



Robert Greene 409 

play.^ Now, between the "rebate" of the Armada and the dis- 
appearance of the Queen's men from London that company acted 
at court ten times ; ^ and upon at least one of these occasions I 
conclude that the Orlando was played. During the year that 
followed the Armada there are but two such occasions on record, 
December 26, 1588, and February 9, 1589; and of the latter the 
notice is open to question.^ In any case the former is more likely 
to be the date of the presentation of Orlando ^ for the reference to 
the Armada, and the championing of Elizabeth under the figure 
of Angelica, would be the policy of a court play acted on the St. 
Stephen's day following the Spanish defeat. If this was the play, 
we may be sure that it won her Majesty's approval ; and that the 
dramatist seized the opportunity to further his good fortune. And 
that is precisely what Greene did. In February, 1589, he brought 
out his Spanish Masquerado^ which was hailed with such enthusiasm 
that his friend Lodge declared that the name of Greene was become 
a terror to the gens sedit'ieux^ that his laurel was deathless, and that 
from a mortal he had become a companion of the gods.* Now 
I incline to think that the success of Orlando contributed to this 
popularity ; there is certainly not enough of political or literary 
worth in the Masquerado alone to account for it. There is further 
reason for dating the Orlando before 1590 if the resemblances 
between it and the Old Wives Tale^ are due, as I think they are, 
to Peele's acquaintance with the former. And if, in his Farewell^ 
the same poet is alluding to our play, under the title of Charlemagne^ 
— which, considering Orlando's frequent brag of kinship with the 
emperor, is not unlikely, — the play must have been acted before 
the spring of 1589. That Greene was occupied with the Orlando at 
a still earlier date would appear from his repeating in it no less than 
five of the character-names which he had used in one of the stories 

1 E.g.^ Orlando's espousal of Angelica's cause and his challenge to Oliver (11. 1485-1486) ; 

** Yet for I see my Princesse is abusde, 

By new-come straglers from a forren coast." 

2 1588, Dec. 26; 1589, Feb. 9 (?), Dec. 26; 1590, Mar. i, Dec. 26; 1591, Jan. i, 
3, 6; Feb. 14, Dec. 26. Fleay, Hist. Stage, pp. 76-80. 

3 The date is assigned also to the Admiral's men. * Lodge's prefatory Sonnet 

5 The ' Sacrapant ' of both ; cf also 0. F. 11. 73-76 with 0. W. T. 11. 808-811. 

6 So Collier, Memoirs of Alleyn ^ Fleay, Shakespeare^ p. 96. 



4 1 o Robert Greene 

of the Peryfnedes.'^ Nor does the tracing of certain resemblances to 
their common source in the epos lessen the general probability that 
Greene's story and play were written at approximately the same 
period ; the latter following, as the former had preceded, the summer 
of 1588. Mr. Fleay would, indeed, push the date back to 1587 
" when the Admiral's men re-opened after the plague," ^ and Pro- 
fessor Brown sets it with that of Alphonsus and Bacon^ between 1584 
and 1587 ;^ but I do not think that the contents warrant either of 
these conclusions. 

Though the Orlando must be of later date than the Alphonsus^ it 
betrays the influence of the still earlier Tamhurlaine. But it is more 
than a sensational or spectacular play \ it is a parody of the ranting 
" mad plays " which were then the rage. Numerous characteristics 
which appear to some critics to be defects of construction are proof 
of this. Orlando's sudden insanity and the ridiculously inadequate 
occasion of it, the headlong denouement^ the farcical technique, the 
mock-heroic atmosphere, the paradoxical absence of pathos, the 
absurdly felicitous conclusion, — all seemingly unwitting, — are 
purposive and satirical. Of such a burlesque the author of The 
Spanish Tragedy f perhaps of the pre-Shakespearian Hamlet^ may 
have been the butt. Greene and Nashe had no affection for Kyd. 
The raving and bombast of this play — the stuff, too, that the actor 
Alleyn injected — suggest a parody of Kyd ; and the dates accord. 
At any rate I think it likely that the Orlando^ was produced while 
the pre-Shakespearian Hamlet was fresh ; and this consideration 
also looks toward 1588. 

Many similarities of style may be pointed out between Orlando 

1 Dr. Ward has mentioned the ' Sacrapant ' j but even more striking is the appearance in 
Perymedes' Tale of the Third Night's Exercise not only of * Melissa ' and her cousin ' Angelica,' 
but of * Brandamant ' and * Rosilius,' who at once suggest the Brandimart and Rosillion of 
Orlando. 

2 Life of Shakespeare, p. 96. 

3 Grosart, I. xxvi. 

* See above, p. 404. 

S Between 1584 and 1588 (see Induction to Barth. Fayre). Maybe as early as 1583- 
1587 (Schick, Span. Trag.). 

® Note the frequent calls for ** revenge " ; and cf. the "Hamlet, revenge!" a cant 
phrase in 1588-89. Grosart gives reason for believing that the Menaphon first appeared 
before July, 1588 [Greene, I. 104). In the Epistle prefixed to it, Nashe ridiculed the 
Hamlet. 



Robert Greene . 411 

and other of Greene's productions during 1588 and 1589.^ The 
resemblances to Friar Bacon not merely in diction, imagery, and 
allusion,^ but in quality of verse, are numerous. In respect of this 
last the plays may be considered together since they are of a piece. 
They were apparently written within a year of each other, both 
with a view to presentation at Court. 

4. The earliest impression of The Honorable Historie of frier Bacon 
and frier Bongay (as it was plaid by her Maiesties servants) is of 
1594, and was printed for Edward White, in whose name (substi- 
tuted for Adam Islip's, erased) it had been entered, S. R. May 14, 
of the same year.^ The earliest record of its presentation is Hens- 
lowe's of 1591-92 : " Rd at fryer bacone, the 19 of febrary, satter- 
daye . . . xvijs iij.^" The play is first in the list of those performed 
by " my Lord Strange's men " ; but is not marked " new." It is, 
however, a drawing play : Strange's men act it about once every 
three weeks, between February 19 and May 6; and once a week, 
between the ensuing January 10 and January 30 ; while Queen's 
and Sussex act it twice in an engagement of a week beginning 
April I, 1593-94. It must have preceded the anonymous play 
Faire Em^ the Miller'' s Daughter of Manchester^ which imitates it^ — 
perhaps with ironic intent. Indeed, Bacon would seem to have been 
acted as much as twelve months before Faire Em appeared. For 
in Greene's Epistle (about the middle of 1591) prefixed to the 
Farewell to Follie^ where he reproaches the imitating dramatist with 
general lack of invention and with profane borrowing from the 
Scriptures, he further twits him with having consumed "a whole 
year " in " enditing " his foolish and inartistic play.^ That is to 
say, a whole year from the production of the play which it so evi- 

1 Cf. 0. F. 11. 83, 84, with TuIIie's Lo-ve (1589), "one orient margarite richer than 
those which Caesar brought," etc. 5 and 0. F. 11. 461, 462, with N. T. L. (published 1590): 
"If the Cobler hath taught thee to say A've Casar.'"'' 

^ E.g., Helen's "scape" — 0. F. 1. 176, F.B. VI. 325 " Gihon," etc. — 0. F. 
i. 4-, F. B. XVI. 66 ; " Demogorgon," etc. — 0. F. 11. 1287, 141 1, and F. B. XI. 108 j 
"Mars's paramour" —O.F. 1. 1545, F. B. XIII. 47. 

3 Arber's Transcript, II. 649. 

* Bernhardi, Greene's Lebe?2 u. Schriften, p. 40; Storojenko in Grosart, I. 253. Cf. 
Greene's Fair M., the Keeper'' s Daughter of Fresingfield, "the proxy-wooing," etc. 

° " O, tis a joliie matter when a man hath a familiar stile and can endite a whole yeare and 
never be beholding to art ? but to bring Scripture to prove anything he says . . . is no small 
piece of cunning." (Grosart, IX. 233.) 



412 . Robert Greene 

dently imitated. Now, what was the date of Faire Em P If, as 
Professor Schick ^ points out, its main source was Jacques Yvers's 
Printemps d" Iver^ it would probably follow the fresh editions of that 
book of 1588 and 1589. And it did. I place its date between 
that of Greene's Address to the Gentlemen Schollers prefixed to the 
Mourning Garment and that of the Address prefixed to his Farewell, 
For in the former he undertakes to forestall, in general, the " fooles " 
who may " scoff^e" at his repentance, and in the latter while he makes 
a show of ignoring the " asses " that " strike " at him (j.e, at his 
Mourning Garment^ he specifies one "ass" who may be expected 
to flout his Farewell,^ viz., the author of Faire Em^ — that being 
indicated by quotations. In other words the Faire Em is to be 
dated between November 2, 1590 (when the Mourning Garment 
was registered),^ and the middle of 1591 (when the Farewell with 
this prefatory Address) appeared.^ Since the "blasphemous rhetoricke" 
of Faire Em was well known when Greene criticised it, we may 
suppose that the play had been in existence since November or 
December, 1590. And if its author had been "a whole year 
enditing " this imitation of Friar Bacon^ Friar Bacon must have been 
a notable play in November or December, 1589. But if Englands 
Mourninge Gowne^ which was registered July I, 1590, be Greene's 
Mourning Garment under another name,* then Faire Em may have 
appeared as early as July or August of the same year; and Friar 
Bacon^ preceding Faire Em by a twelvemonth, might be dated July or 
August, 1589. Even if we do not strictly construe Greene's 
" whole year," we must allow some such opportunity for the vogue 
of Friar Bacon^ and for the composition, presentation, and vogue of 
Faire Em^ before the publication of Greene's retort in the 1591 
edition of the Farewell to Follie. Hence the period between July 
and the end of 1589 will probably cover the production of Friar 
Bacon; but the latter limit might include the spring of 1590. 

Mr. Fleay,^ reasoning from the insertion of Greene's longer 
motto as colophon to the 1594 exemplar, places Friar Bacon 

1 Spanish Tragedy^ Preface, xxvi. 

2 Arber, and Storojenko in Grosart, I. 119, 
8 Storojenko, as above, I. 235. 

4 Ward, 0. E. D. cxix. 

^ For Mr. Fleay's arguments, see Ward's 0. E. D. cxliii-cxliv. 



Robert Greene 413 

earlier than the: Menaphon (S. R. August 23, 1589), in which he says 
Greene's shorter motto ^ is first used. Of the validity of this test I 
am not convinced. Much more convincing is the argument based 
by the same indefatigable scholar upon a date suggested within the 
drama. St. James's Day, July 25, is mentioned (Sc. i.) as falling on 
a Friday. Mr. Fleay insists that in such cases dramatic authors 
used the almanac for the current year; and he shows that 1589 is 
the only year of such coincidence that will meet the conditions of 
this play. Since the attribution of the exact day of the week to a 
movable feast is more likely to follow than to precede the obser- 
vance, I should regard July 25, 1589, as the limit before which the 
Bacon was not finished. Now, not only the eulogy of Elizabeth at 
the end, but the euphuistic and classical style of the play, shows 
that it was intended for presentation at court. The only dates 
within the limits above prescribed on which the Queen's men played 
before her Majesty were December 26, 1589, and March i, 1590. 
I lean to the former, St. Stephen's Day, as that on which Friar 
Bacon was performed. 

The relation of this play to Dr. Faustus throws additional light 
upon the question under discussion. We must first eliminate the 
assumption that Marlowe's " wall of brass " ^ was borrowed from 
Friar Bacon. The sources of the conception were common to 
both playwrights : the Famous Historie of frier Bacon.^ a story-book 
popular at the time, and " the tradition already borrowed from 
Giraldus Cambrensis by Spenser."^ And it is evident that Mar- 
lowe drew the scene where Robin conjures with one of Faustus's 
books directly from the story-book, not at all from Greene's play.* 
I agree with Dr. Ward that Greene's play was suggested by Mar- 
lowe's, and that " it is hardly too great an assumption to regard 
Bacon's victory over Vandermast as a cheery outdoing by genuine 
English magic of the pretentious German article in which Faustus 
was the representative traveller." Greene's play is a romantic but 

1 Dropping the qui miscuit, etc. 

2 I. 86. See Ward, 0. E. D., and O. Ritter, F. B. and F. B. {Diss. Thorn, 1886). 
^ F. ^ III. 3. 10 (pub. 1590, but privately circulated as early as 1587). 

* W. must be mistaken when he refers Scene xv. oi Bacon to Chaps. XII., XIV., of the 
story-book. For the Miles of the play does no conjuring j and the devil who carries him off is 
the instrument of Bacon's vengeance. 



4 1 4 Robert Greene 

humorous, sometimes burlesque, treatment of a theme like Mar- 
lowe's, but familiar to the audience, and attractive because domestic. 
It may, indeed, be surmised that some scenes in Friar Bacon are 
parodies of their pompous analogues in Dr. Faustus} I think it 
has not been noticed that in the title of Greene's play we have a 
clue to his intention : the ' Honorable Historie ' is in evident con- 
trast with the ' Tragical Historie ' of Dr. Faustus. For the word 
' honorable ' was not derived from the title of the story-book. That 
is a ' Famous Historic.' If he had acted in accordance with cus- 
tom, Greene might have replaced ' famous ' by ' comical,' to indi- 
cate the fortunate ending of his fable. No other drama that I 
know of, up to 1589, had been denominated an 'honorable' his- 
tory. But, in this case, Greene had every provocation to empha- 
size the quality ' honorable.' For his purpose was to vaunt the 
superiority of the English magician above the tragically concluding 
German. 

This consideration confirms the assignment of Friar Bacon to 
some time within a year after the production of Dr. Faustus (1588 
end or 1589 beginning). So, also, the resemblances in style to 
Greene's other writings of that period. The love theme in Friar 
Bacon is similar to that in TulUe's Love (1589); the style is akin to 
that of Orlando (December, 1588). These two are also closely 
related as dramatic productions. The earlier, to be sure, confines 
itself more narrowly to the satirical intent, while the later aims 
in aesthetic respects, also, to surpass its Marlowan predecessor. It 
is, consequently, an improvement upon Orlando in construction and 
characterization. The dramatist is now working with free hand, 
and, for the first time in this field, employs the ease and invention 
for which, as a story-teller, he was already famous. In versifica- 
tion these two plays continue the methods of the Looking-Glasse ; 
but the rhymed lines are sensibly fewer. In Orlando they appear 
at the end of the first half-dozen speeches ; in Friar Bacon they are 
to seek. In both plays, about three-quarters of the verses avoid 
the singsong pause at the end of the second foot. In the Orlando^ 
I should say that more than a third of the verses escape, in addi- 
tion, the penthimimeral caesura ; in the Friar Bacon., almost a third. 

1 Cf. the summoning of Burden and his hostess with that of Alexander and his paramour. 



Robert Greene 415 

The dodecasyllable with which Greene is experimenting in the 
interest of freedom, is somewhat frequent in both plays. For the 
reason already given, there is not so much prose as in the Looking- 
Glasse^ perhaps only half as much. Still, of Orlando^ one-fifth is 
written in prose, and of Friar Bacon nearly a fourth. 

5. Storojenko^ holds that The Scottish Historie of Ja??ies the Fourth 
betrays a novel tendency toward native themes and simple style, and 
that, with Bacon and The Pinner^ it furnished the model for Shake- 
speare's romantic comedies. Professor Brown, pointing out that 
James IV. is " among the first plays to have an acted prologue and 
interplay," thinks that Shakespeare followed Greene's example in 
the Taming of the Shrew and the Midsummer Night's Dream ; and 
he groups fames IF. with The Pinner and the Looking-Glasse as later 
than the three other plays of Greene, and free from their " alluring 
pedantry." 2 But we have already seen that the Looking-Glasse pre- 
ceded both Orlando and Bacon ; and I think it can be proved that 
fames IF. followed them. The unique exemplar, printed by 
Creede, " as it hath bene sundrie times publikely plaide," is ot 
1598, and is probably a reprint of a lost edition of 1594.^ Hens- 
low makes no mention of the play ; nor have we record of its 
acting. Storojenko conjectures some date after the summer of 
1589 for its composition; Brown, some date between 1587 and 
1592; Ward, about 1590; Fleay, after August 23, 1589,* 
because it uses the shorter motto (but elsewhere,^ 1591 — prob- 
ably in collaboration with Lodge). 

The following observations will, I think, fix the limits as 1590— 
1591. Ida's lines, 270—279 in Act I. , beginning " And weele I 
wot, I heard a shepheard sing," ^ are a reminiscence of the Heard- 
groo?ne iv^ his strawberrie lasse in Peele's Hunting of Cupid : " What 

1 Grosart, I. 184. 

2 But Grosart (I, xxxvii.— xl.) appropriately recalls the preexistence of the Taming of a 
Sbretv. He queries the sequence, — James IV. ^ M. N. Z). , — but without upsetting it. 

^ See Storojenko and Grosart as above; and in the B. R., Creede, May 14, 1594. 

* In Ward, 0. E. D. cxliii. 
5 Life of Shakesp., p. 309. 

* Continuing : — 

"That like a Bee, Lo've hath a little sting. 
He lurkes in flowres, he pearcheth on the trees, 
He on king's pillowes, bends his prettie knees. . . .** 



41 6 . Robert Greene 

thing is love ? for (wel I wot) love is a thing," etc.^ Notice the 
recurrence in Drummond's version of the " weele I wot." The 
"shepheard" to whom Ida has reference is, of course, one of 
the swains of the Huntings or Peele himself. The Hunting was not 
registered for printing till July 26, 159IJ but then with the pro- 
viso " that if it be hurtful to any other copy before licensed . . . 
this to be void." The proviso was frequently mere form, but it 
suggests that Greene may have drawn the verses from a manuscript 
copy, or from the public performance before July 26, 1591. I 
do not think that the Hunting was written very long before it was 
registered, because the atmosphere and phraseology are still fresh 
in Peele's mind when he writes his Descensus Astnea^ October, 1591. 
But it is interesting to note that there occurs a premonition or echo 
of these same verses on Love in Greene's Mourning Garment^ 
which had been registered in 1590, from eight to twelve months 
before the registration of the Hunting. We may, with reasonable 
latitude, assign the composition of the Hunting to the year 1590, 
and that of yames IV. to a later date in proximity to that of 
Greene's Mourning Garment — say about July, 1 590. Confirma- 
tion of this conclusion may be found in other resemblances of sen- 
timent and style between yames IV. and the Mourning Garment^ as 
well as in Dorothea's reference to the Irish wars, which may have 

1 Continutnz : — ,,x • . , . . 

" It IS a prtckCj It IS a sttngy 

It is a prettie, prettie thing. 

It is a fire, it is a cole 

Whose flame creeps in at everie hole. ..." 

This is the version of the Drummond Ms. fragment, which differs from the Rawlinson Ms. 
See Dyce, Greene and Peele, p. 603. Fainter resemblances might be cited. 

2 July I or November 2 : — 

** Ah, what is love ? It is a prettie thing 
As sweete unto a shepheard as a king." 

— The Shepheard' s W'lfe'i Song, as in Dyce, p. 305. 

Grosart's transcript of ^ 1616 (IX. 144) accidentally omits all but the last two lines of this 
song. 

3 Besides the frequent identity of tone, note such coincidences as yames IV. 1. 2669, 
* aldertruest,' M. G. (Descript. of Sheph. and Wife), * alderliefest,' an archaism found 
nowhere else in Greene, — but in the Folio of 2 Henry VI. 1. 28 (prob. by Greene, Fleay, 
Shakespeare, p. 269). The sentiment of Philador's Scroivle and Ode in M. G. is a variant 
of the O vidian precept oi James IV. 1. 1108. 



Robert Greene 4 1 7 

been suggested by the contemporary rising in Fermanagh ; for, since 
the suppression of Desmond, in 1583, there had been comparative 
quiet in Ireland. Though the play exhibits little of the affected 
style which Elizabeth demanded, it is courtly, and the graceful 
compliment to the queen and the (English) rose in the laudation. of 
Dorothea's attributes, together with that heroine's forecast of a 
union between Scotland and England,i might indicate a view to 
court presentation, and a date of composition when such union was 
favourably contemplated. The further boast of Dorothea : — 
** Shall never Frenchman say an English maid 
Of threats of forraine force will be afraid," - 
was doubtless intended for the ear of the virgin queen, who, in 
1590 and 1 59 1, was busily landing forces in France to thwart the 
schemes of her implacable enemies, the Guises. This play may, 
therefore, have been presented by Greene's company, at court, on 
December 26, 1590, or as one of their five performances during 

The moral atmosphere is. that of the penitential pamphlets; while 
the pictures of roguery coincide with those of the conycatching 
series. The portrayal of character is that of a mature dramatist ; 
the plot is more skilfully manipulated than in Friar Bacon^ and 
covers a larger canvas ; but, though it smacks of the folk, it has 
hardly the simple domestic interest of that drama. Still, Ward 
calls it the happiest. Brown the most perfect, of Greene's plays ; in 
fact, " the finest Elizabethan historical play outside of Shakespeare." 

The versification of James IV. gives proof of a mature quality of 
experimentation. Because rhyme prevails. Collier assigned the 
play to Greene's earlier period ; but the criterion is inconclusive. 
Though Greene conformed to the blank verse fashion as early as 
1588, he made it clear, at the time, that he was no convert.^ And, 
while in 159C-91 he recognizes the merits of a richer and more 
varied rhythm, he is not yet convinced that rhyme should be aban- 
doned ; in tender and gently romantic passages he counts it utile as 
well as duke. Some of the scenes in which Ida and the queen 
figure are, accordingly, almost altogether rhymed. The rhythmical 

1 Lines i 575-1 580, 2655-2699. ^ To the Gentlemen Readers of Perymedes. 

2 Lines 1 901-1902. 



4 1 8 Robert Greene 

movement is, however, no less liberal than in Orlando and Bacon ; 
the proportion of monotone and penthimimeral is as low ; and as 
many as fifty per cent of the casura are lyrical. Fully one-quarter 
of the play is in prose. 

Having a regard only to the unquestioned plays of Greene, we 
notice that his employment of dramatic prose dates from the asso- 
ciation with Lodge in the Looking-Glasse ; that his renunciation of 
rhyme was short-lived, and that its resumption did not hamper the 
freedom of rhythmical movement. In none of the later plays, how- 
ever, is the verse so elastic as in his own dramatic portions of the 
Looking-Glasse. And there the mobility was probably due to a 
desire for contrast with the prophetic monologues. 

Attributions. — Various other plays have, in whole or in part, 
been assigned to Greene ; A History of ^ohe} not extant j part of 
The Troublesome Raigne of King fohn^ and of the First and Second 
Parts of Henry VI. ;'^ Fair Emm^ (with no show of reason), and 
others mentioned by Dyce ; Titus Andronicus ; ^ The Pinner of JVake- 
field^ Selimus^ and A Knack to Know a Knave.^ We can consider 
only the last three. 

I. The earliest extant exemplar of George-a-Greene^ the Pinner of 
Wakefield is in the Duke of Devonshire's library. The author's 
name does not appear. But the printer, publisher, year, vignette, 
and motto {^Aut nunc aut nunqua?7i) are the same as on the title- 
page of the 1599 Orlando; and the same printer, Burbye, had, in 
1592, published other works of Greene: the Third Part of Conny- 
Catching and The Repentance. These items do not, however, prove 
anything concerning the identity of the author. The play was 
entered to Burbye, April i, 1595. We learn from the title-page 
that the Sussex company acted it ; and Henslowe records five of 
these performances between December 29, 1593, and January 22, 
1594. But, though the Sussex men soon afterwards twice assisted 
Greene's former company in the presentation of Friar Bacon^ they 

^ S. R. \ 594. 

2 Fleay, Hist. Stage, pp. 399, 400 5 Life of Shake sp., p. 255 et seq. He guesses also True 
Chron. Hist, of Lei r, Valentine and Orson, and Robin Hood [Hist. Stage, 89, 400). 

3 Phillips's Theatrum Poetarum. 

4 Grosart in Englische Stud. XXII. (1896). 
^ See under < Young Juvenall ' below. 



Robert Greene 4 1 9 

do not seem at this, or any previous period, to have owned any of 
the unquestioned plays of Robert Greene. Henslowe does not 
mark this one ' new,' and the dramatic contents give no indication 
of its date, save that one of the dramatis persona refers to Tam- 
berlaine.i No hght is thrown upon the authorship by contempo- 
rary pubHcations ; and, as late as Kirkman's Catalogue^ 1661, the 
play was still anonymous. It has been assigned to Greene on the 
manuscript evidence which has already been shown to be inconclu- 
sive.2 In the last resort our decision must depend upon the detec- 
tion of Greenian characteristics. Dr. Ward has observed that the 
play possesses "one of Greene's most attractive notes, — a native 
English freshness of colouring," — glimpses of which may also be 
had in Friar Bacon and yames IV. This is true. The representa- 
tion of the characters, manners, and speech of the middle and lower 
classes is such as might have contributed to Chettle's estimate 
of the dramatist, — "the only comedian of a vulgar writer in this 
country." 3 In the "plotting," also, of the play, no ordinary skill is 
evinced, and that is the " quality," says Nashe, wherein Greene 
was master of his craft.^ The material is a popular story, like the 
material of Friar Bacon. One of the incidents, indeed, existed not 
only in the popular story, but in the experience of Robert Greene 
as well.^ The rhetorical style here and there affords an inkling of 
this " very supporter " of native comedy : a word that seems to be 
his,^ a phrase or trick of the tongue," a figure or two,^ occasionally 
a bejewelled verse,^ and once, at least, a sentiment, — 

** The sweet content of men that live in love 
Breeds fretting humours in a restless mind." 

But in Greene's undoubted productions the Greenian attributes are 
not so far to seek : the curious imagery, the precious visualizing, 
the necromantic monstrous toys. With his brocaded rhetoric fancy 

1 Line 48. 2 p^ge 401, above. 

^ Kind Harts Dreame, 1592. * Ha-ve ivith Tou, etc., I 596. 

^ Making "the apparriter eate his citation," Strange Netves, etc., 1592. 
^ Dumps, affects, quaint, fair (for beauty), vail, bonnet (but the last two come from the 
prose romance). 

7 *< Why, who art thou .? " *' Why, I am George," etc. 

^ "Painting my outward passions," 11. 311-312. ^ Bonfield to Bettris, 11. 215-226. 



420 Robert Greene 

is captivated and judgment disarmed. He gluts each appetite in turn 
with 'semblances/ — rare, remote, and meretricious. His silks are 
gay with ' sparks ' and margarites, redolent of sandalwood and 
spice, stiff with oriental gold. They rustle richly on the ear. 
The atmosphere is sense idealized ; the melody, a bell. I do not 
find these earmarks in The Pinner; nor the coloured negligence 
of Greene, the studied, off-hand blush, the conscious affectation of 
unconscious art. Of such devices "James IV. ^ indeed, is by no means 
compact ; but, in its first fifth, there are four or five times as many ref- 
erences to the foreign, the historical, astrological, mythical, as in all 
The Pinner. The three or four classical allusions in The Pinner 
are stark. But Greene's employment of the mythological is never 
unattractive; it is sui generis. It has always a quiddity of the indi- 
rect, the unexpected : a relish of distinction. These bald " Caesars " 
and " Helenas " of The Pinner are not Greene. On the contrary, 
we come across many words, fashions of prose dictions and comic 
devices, that savour of Lodge as we know him in the Civill IVar 
and the Looking-Glasse^ and suspect him in Mucedorus. The con- 
versations are sometimes reminiscent of Greene \ but, on the whole, 
thev fail of his humorous indirection and his craft. 

The verse is so vilely divided in the original that even after 
Dyce's attempt at reconstruction, no basis for conclusive attribu- 
tion of authorship is available. Prose forms a large proportion ; 
indeed, it looks as if the author were trying to see how near prose 
he might come without ceasing to produce unrhymed pentameters. 
Fragmentary lines, dodecasyllables, feminine endings, and rhetorical 
pauses abound. These last are to me more suggestive of Greene's 
association with the play than is any other feature; for more than 
once or twice they yield the genuinely Greenian rhythm.^ If 
Greene had a hand in The Pinner.^ the metrical style would fix its 
date just before or after James IV. It has the ease and variety of 
Bacon., but is as signal an experiment in conversational blank verse 
as was James IV. in rhymed dramatic; and it is a fairly successful 
experiment. 

2. The Firt Part of the Tragical! Raigne of Selimus {Creede, 1594) 
has been reclaimed for Greene by Dr. Grosart, principally on the 

^ As described in my Appendix to Friar Bacon. 



Robert Greene 421 

evidence of England's Parnassus (1600) which assigns to Greene 
two passages taken from Selimus} For Dr. Grosart's presentation 
of the case the reader may be referred to the Introduction to his 
edition of Greene.^ It is worthy of the most careful study. Dr. 
Ward after examining the interval evidence decides adversely to Dr. 
Grosart's results.^ The following additional considerations incline 
me to the same decision. The weight of the evidence depends, not 
upon the number of passages from Selimus assigned by Allott to Greene, 
but upon the style of each passage. In the Parnassus^ Allott has 
assigned to Greene passages from other works, which do not belong 
to him ; two, for instance, which have been traced to Spenser. If 
the passages from Selimus on Delate and Damocles have not Greene's 
characteristic, then twenty such assignments do not prove that he 
wrote Selimus, They would more logically prove that the collector, 
in this as in other cases, is an uncertain guide. Now there is no 
trace, not the faintest, of Greene's diction, sentiment, poetic qualitv, 
or rhythmical form, in the tintinnabulation of the Delaie^ or the 
platitude of the Damocles. And so throughout the play. Neither 
the defects nor the merits appear to me to be Greene's. Many of 
the lines are, indeed, resonant, scholarly, and strong, but not in 
Greene's quality. If the play were written by Greene, it could 
not have been written later than the Alphonsus : stanzaic form, -and 
the crudities of rhythm, diction, and technique determine that ; nor, 
on the other hand, could it have been written earlier than the 
Alphonsus,^ for with Alphonsus Greene began " to treat of bloody 
Mars." It is not incumbent upon me to find an author for Selimus,^ 
but I think that the probabilities indicate Lodge (circa 1586-87). 
It has perhaps not been noted that Bullithrumble's lines (1955-1958) 
about godfathers are duplicated by Lodge's Alcon in the Looking- 
Glasse (1. 1603); and that the parlance of Bullithrumble is paral- 
leled by Curtail and Poppey in Lodge's Civill War {circa 1587). 
The dogberryisms, clipped words, and inverted phrases of the same 
character are of a piece also with those of Mouse in Mucedorus^-^ 

1 On Delaie, 11. 503-509; on Damocles^ 11. 853-857. 

2 In Vol. I. of Greens' s Worh^ and in the Temple Dramatists. 

3 Hist. E. D. L. Vol. I. 

* Lines 1980-198 3 oi Selimus are reproduced in Mucedorus (H. Dods. VII. 214). 



42 2 Robert Greene 

3. play which has indeed so many of the idiosyncrasies that mark 
the Civil/ War that Mr. P'leay is not without warrant in conjectur- 
ing the authorship of Lodge. It should in addition be remarked 
that several of the expressions which Dr. Grosart finds in Selimus^ 
and considers to be peculiarly Greene's, are to be found in the 
Civill War and the Mucedorus ; and that some non-Greenian char- 
acteristics of the Selimus appear in one or the other of these plays. 
The "to-fore," for instance, which Dr. Grosart marks as Greenian 
in Selimus occurs four times in Mucedorus alone. The blank verse 
of the Selimus finds its parallel in that of the Civill War ; so, also, 
the quaint stanzaic form, and the apparently Greenian moralizing 
on ' content ' ^ (11. 2049—2053). And conversely, the profound and 
easeful soliloquies and serious imagery of the Civill War are nearer 
akin to those of the Selimus than to anything of Greene's. 

3. 'Young Juvenall ' and the ' Comedie lastly writ.' — "With 
thee " says Greene to Marlowe in the Groatsworth^ " I joyne young 
Juvenall, that byting satirist, that lastly with mee together writ a 
comedie. Sweete boy, might I advise thee," etc. Simpson and 
Grosart disprove the conjecture^ that the play was the Looking-Glasse 
and the 'Juvenal,' Lodge : The Looking-Glasse had not been lately 
written ; the epithet ' Juvenal ' did not at any time apply to Lodge ; 
nor would Greene, in 1592, have called him a "sweete boy" as he 
calls this fellow-dramatist, for Lodge, born 1557, was thirty-five at 
the time and older than Greene by three years. It is argued that 
' Juvenal ' was Nashe as follows : Nashe was already proficient in 
satire; he had, between 1589 and 1592, published half a dozen 
pasquinades which had met with immediate success ; he calls himself 
and is called by others ' Pasquil' or 'Aretine' or the 'railing Nashe'; 
and Meres in 1598 addresses him as "gallant young Juvenal" and 
mentions him with Greene among the " best writers of comedie." 
It must also be remembered that Nashe was ' young ' — not quite 
twenty-five in 1592 — "and that a difference of seven years made 
him a ' sweete boy ' in Greene's regard." ^ To these considerations 

1 Cf. Ci'v. pr..H. Dods. VII. 137, 147, 187, 192-193. 

2 Cf. Dyce, Malone, Fleay. 

3 Grosart, Greene, 1. pp. Ivii-lxv, who quotes Simpson, Greene on Nashe, Academy, nth 
April, 1874, and Symonds, Predecessors of Shakespeare, p. 574, Of this opinion are also 
Farmer, Staunton, and Ward, 



Robert Greene 423 

I add the following: First, — Chettle feigning a letter i from the 
dead poet to Nashe {Robert Greene to Pierce Pennilesse\ makes 
Greene use almost the epithet of the Groatsivorth^ " Awake, secure 
hoy^ revenge thy wrongs." It may be surmised that the older poet 
was in the way of thus affectionately terming the younger, and that 
Chettle, who had edited the Groatszvorth^ had the pamphlet in mind 
when he conceived this letter. Second, — The pains taken by Nashe, 
in his Strange Newes^ to disclaim anything like continuous companion- 
ship are occasioned by the fact that he and Greene had " lastly *' 
been "together." He writes, in September, 1592, "Since first 
I knewe him [Greene] about towne, I have beene two yeares together 
and not scene him."^ The "first" refers to 1588-89 when Nashe 
was championing Greene's Menaphon and scoring Greene's rivals in 
The Anatornie. The "two yeares" bring us to 1591, when he was 
engaged with Greene in the controversy with the Harveys^ which 
he here recounts with such detail as to indicate no slight acquaint- 
ance with Greene's motives and movements at the time. In that 
year appeared Nashe's Astrological Prognostication^ and in the next, 
Greene's ^ip^ both bearing upon the subject on hand. We may 
infer that the revival of their literary association was connected 
with the ' canvazing ' of the rope-maker's sons.* Greene's con- 
cluding counsel is such as we should expect him to give the ' young 
Juvenall ' with whom he had lately engaged against a common 
enemy .^ Nashe informs us also that he had occasionally, of late, 
caroused with the poet and that he was present at that "banquet of 
Rhenish and pickled herrings " from which Greene took his death.^ 
Third, — When Dekker, some fifteen years later, tells in his Knighfs 
Conjuring of the habitants of the " p^ieldes of Joye," he introduces 
Nashe as one of that group which is exclusively restficted to the 
poets, and the editor, of Greene's Groatszvorth. " Marlow, Greene, 
and Peele," writes he, " had got under the shades of a large vyne 

1 In Kind Harts Dreame, 1592. 

2 Strange Neives, Sig, l. 4. 

3 Ibid., Sig c. 2, 3. 

* See Saffron JValden (1596), Sig. v. 2. 

^ '* Blame not schollers [the Harveys ?] vexed with sharpe lines if they reprove thy too 
much libertie of reproofe." Grosart, xii. 143, Groatsw. 
6 Strange Neives, Sig. H. and e. 4, 



424 Robert Greene 

laughing to see Nash [the favourite of the group, and even yet the 
' sweete boy '] that was but newly come to their colledge, still 
haunted with the sharpe and satyricall spirit that followed him heere 
upon earth. . . ." And why there ? He had " shortened his dayes 
by keeping company with pickle-herring " [many another night, no 
doubt, than that of August, 1592, with Will Monox and Ro. 
Greene, — but that night persisted]. And with what do they greet 
him? "How [do] poets and players agree noiv?^^ A precise 
Groatsworth issue to which Nashe responds in proper Groatsworth 
phrase, with echo as well from his Preface to the Menaphon^ and 
with a parting fling at Harvey.^ Then, as if to round out the com- 
pany, there enters Kind Hart, a-puffing, — Chettle, himself, the 
conservator of the ' Colledge.' Thus Dekker the contemporary 
of the Groatsworth group fixes the identity of its 'Juvenall' on 
earth and under. And the ' comedie ' was writ in 1591 or the first 
half of 1592. 

But it is not easy to determine its name. A plea might be made 
for Summer's Last Will and Testament^ on certain counts of R. 
W.'s diatribe in Martlne Mars'ixtusf but I doubt whether it would 
convince. Simpson thinks that the ' comedie ' was not improbably 
A Knack to Know a Knave^ which had been acted as new, June 10, 
1592. Fleay,^ however, asserts that there is not the slightest 
ground for this conjecture ; and Grosart^ is sure that " no one who 
reads A Knack can possibly find in it one line from either Greene 
or Nashe." I shall not undertake to prove that Mr. Simpson was 
right: it must, however, be observed that the subject of ^.^w^r/^ 
was not foreign to the genius of Nashe ; that two of the char- 

1 " Ocnus, that makes ropes in hell " — who in truth survived them all. 

2 Privately acted betvi^een July 27 and August 21, 1592, at Croydon. Fleay, H. S. p. 78. 
^ ** What publishing of frivolous and scurrilous prognostications, as if Will Summers were 

again revived," etc. '* And yet they shame not to subscribe * By a graduate in Cambridge ' ' In 
Artibus Magister.'' . . . They are the Pharisees of our time," etc. Note the plural. But 
though Nashe had revived Will Somers in the L. TV. and T., though he was entitled to sub- 
scribe himself "Graduate in C. ," as Greene had done, and though Greene is the A.M. and 
intended " Pharisee," etc., the "scurrilous prognostications" and the other earmarks are hard 
to find in L. W. and T., as we have it. The "lute-string" passage ( Dods. IX. 22) recalls 
Thrasybulus' remarks in Lk.-GL' Sc. v. ; but that scene is probably by Lodge, and Nashe 
himself parallels the passage more closely in Christ's Tears (1593). 

^ Life of Shakesp., p. 109. 

^ Greene. I. Ixii. 



Robert Greene 425 

acters, the satirical commentator and the Welshman, have their 
counterparts in his Summer's Last Will -y and that Greene had with 
godly intent written up and published the whole truth about knaves 
and ' coosnage ' only within the past year and a half. As for the 
plot, it may have no analogue in Nashe's works, but in one i at least 
of its threads it parallels Friar Bacon^ and in another 2 the 
Looking-Glasse ; and four or five of its situations^ reproduce pecu- 
liarities and language of those plays. As for the speeches, though 
more than one is reminiscent of Greene's rococo^ the style is more 
like that of the Last Will To be sure there are septenarii in the 
Knacky and none in the Will', but the blank verse, such as it is, 
might readily have been chipped from Nashe ; so also the short 
irregular rhymed lines, and much of the prose. The vocabulary 
is not unlike his. Nashe might have been capable of the classical 
excrescences ; Greene certainly was not. These coincidences are, 
of course, merely suggestive. For me they indicate possibly that if 
Greene had no hand in the play, some one who lacked his touch and 
most of his cunning has freely plundered him ; ^ and that, if he had 
an interest in the play, it was limited to the suggestion of plot and 
treatment. Nashe may have thrown the material into shape. It is 
a small matter, but perhaps worth recording, that the Knack calls 
itself " a most pleasant and merie new Cornedie^' that Greene calls 
the play "lastly writ" a ' comedie,' and that no other play con- 
nected with his name save the doubtful Pinner is so described. Also 
that the date of the Knack accords with the conditions : it was played 

1 Cf. Kn. (H. Dods. 514) with F. B., Sc. i. 155, ** the vicarious wooing." 

2 Cf. Kn., Episode of Philarchus, with Lk.-GL, that of Radagon. 

3 Cf. the sequel of the vicarious wooing in Kn. with that in F. B. ; Smith and Cobbler, 
Kn. (p. 566), "God of our occupation . . . cuckold," with same conversation, Lk.-GL, 
Sc. ii. 254-255; Thankless son, Kn. (p. 523), "Thou hast been fostered," etc., with 
Lk.-GL, Sc. viii. 1247; Kn. (p. 523), "disdain . . . want," With Lk.-GL 12735 '^"• 
(p. 526), "Mother's curse . . . hated," etc., wkh Lk.-GL, 1. 1275. Resemblances to 
Lodge's lines are: Usurer, Kn. (pp. 548-549), and Lk.-GL, Scs. iii. v.; Kn., "My 
house . . . goods," and Lk.-GL iii. 419, "My cow," etc. 

4 Cf. Kn. (H. Dods. VI. 514), Ethenwald's "to show your passions . . . fairer than 
the dolphin's eye," etc., to the end, and (H. Dods. VI. 562) Ethenwald's "purpled main 
. . . wanton love," etc., and (p. 570) Alfrida's "Beset with orient pearl," etc., with 
F. B., Sc, viii. 11. 26, 50-73. 

5 On this basis, I see something to be said in fevour of Mr. Fleay's conjecture of Wilson, 
but not of Peele and Wilson. 



426 Robert Greene 

about two months before the Groatsiuorth was begun, and by a com- 
pany that then was acting three dramas known to be Greene's. 

Friar Bacon : Stage History and Materials. — The position of 
Greene's plays in the history of English comedy is indicated in 
Professor Woodberry's article. The play here under discussion 
was acted with some frequency between 1591 and 1594, some- 
times at important seasons, always with fair attendance, and occa- 
sionally with large profits. It was performed at court as late as 
1602, and was occasionally revived under James I. and Charles I.^ 

The necromantic theme with its instruments, the characters 
primarily concerned (Bacon, Bungay, Vandermast, Miles), and the 
catastrophes connected with the 'wonderfull glasse,' i.e. the materials 
for Scenes ix., xi., xiii., are derived from The Fajjious Historie of Frier 
Bacon., already mentioned — "a popular story-book probably written 
toward the end of the sixteenth century, and founded upon accre- 
tions of the legendary history of Roger Bacon." ^ The same source 
afforded also the suggestion of Scenes ii. and vi. — the exposure 
of Burden's intrigue and the interrupted wedding. The romantic 
theme, its characters and incidents, and the enveloping action are 
of Greene's devising. What slight resemblance the last bears to 
history need not here be recapitulated. For that, and for the literary 
career of the magical devices, the readers may consult the admirable 
summaries of Ward ^ and Ritter, to which I have nothing to add 
save that there exists a prior suggestion of the ' head of brass,' in 
English drama, in the Conflict of Conscience., III. iii. 5, and, in the 
same play, an instance of the ' crystal clear ' or ' gladsome glass.' 
The latter might seem, indeed, to be anticipated by the ' Glass of 
Reson ' in Redford's TFyt and Science., but that is a different thing. 
The ' glass prospective ' is adapted in Friar Bacon to a species of 
stage business which is unique: the scene beside a scene., — a device 

1 Fleay, Life of S/iakesp., and in Ward's 0. E. £)., p. cxliv. 

■^ Born 1 2 14; student at Oxford and Paris ^ Franciscan at Oxford 5 because of his mathe- 
matical and philosophical lore suspected of necromancy and forbidden to lecture ; imprisoned 
1278-1292; died 1294. See Ward, 0. E. £)., xxi-xxiv. 

3 0. E. D., pp. 207-2105 O. Ritter, De Rob. Greeni Fahula ' F. B. and B." The 
summoning of shades occurs in the Odyssey and i Sam. 28. 7. Magical images were made by 
Vergil, the Enchanter; the Brazen H. speaks in Valent. and Orson. The wall of brass 
is found in Gir. Cambrensis, and Spenser. The Speculum is assigned to Caesar, and the 
Enchanter, Vergil. See also Chaucer and Spenser. 



Robert Greene 427 

essentially distinct from the play within the play. While the persons 
to whom we owe the disclosure of this parallel scene are no less sur- 
prised thereby than are we, the persons of the scene disclosed not 
only vitally affect the main action by the unaffected pursuit of their 
own interests, but incidentally present the fact that is stranger than 
fiction. To the double illusion of the play concocted within a play, 
this impromptu enlistment of nature in the ranks of art adds the 
illusion of unconscious drama. Moreover, in the glass prospective 
scenes, the piquancy of the preternatural is surpassed by that of 
the natural ; the artless eclipses the artificial, and the result is an 
artistic irony. And, after all, these scenes beside the scene are but 
the dear device of eavesdropping purged of the keyhole and the sneak. 
They are not the strategic contrivance of the inner play of the 
Spanish Tragedy or Hamlet^ nor a mere mechanism for diversion as 
in 'James IV. and Midsummer Nighty nor an episode as in Love's 
Lahor^ nor a substitute for the initial movement like the play within 
the Old Wives' Tale^ but a something that combines qualities from 
each. The parallel scene is at the same time its own raison d'etre^ 
and a reflex of its principal which it multiplies and raises to a higher 
power. 

The motif — the wooing by proxy — is, of course, as ancient as 
the Arthuriad, and as modern as Miles Standish ; indeed, older and 
younger yet. This appearance precedes, however, several other 
dramatic instances, such as those of Faire Em^ the Knacky and, I 
believe, / Henry VI. There are likewise to be found precursors of 
Edward's renunciation, as in the Campaspe^ and later instances, as in 
the Knack and other plays. The apparently motiveless abandon- 
ment of Peggy is, however, a novelty, and uniquely handled \ a 
capital instance of ' comic ' irony, invested with solemnity, and 
introduced with a wink. 

Dramatic Construction. — The pedant might find it easy to break 
this plot upon a wheel -, but the plot is none the less a dramatic 
success. It may be that the climax is reached too soon ; but the 
scene is none the less effective for its suddenness and in its con- 
sequence. The sham desertion exists merely because Greene 
was put to it, after his climax, to string out the romantic interest. 
In itself it is an absurdity, but a delicious absurdity ; and, unsympa- 



428 Robert Greene 

thetic as we may be with the mediaeval test of constancy, the event 
somehow suffices, — perhaps because it unfolds phases of Margaret's 
character which owe their witchery to their unllkehhood. It may 
be said that the title thread is, for us, of secondary interest ; but 
such a judgment would by no means hold true of an Elizabethan 
audience. That, Indeed, would delight in the necromantic ' busi- 
ness,' with Its elements, of sensation and amaze, its contribution 
to ' humours,' and its intermittent influence upon plot. It may 
be said that the Intersection of the threads is not of necessity, but of 
external agency ; that the tragic minor motive is imported, and the 
enveloping action thin. But why measure the beautiful by rule 
of thumb ? The quality here Is sui generis^ residing In scenes 
rather than fable — scenes idyllic, spectacular, amusing, so ordered 
that movement shall be continuous and interest unflagging. The 
interest Is not primarllv of character or solution ; It proceeds 
from the pageant : and the continuity from the manager. Greene, 
the story-teller, has suborned Greene, the impresario-^ there results 
this panel-romance, a drama of the picturesque. On no previous 
occasion had sentimental, comic, sensational, mysterious, sublime, 
and tragic been so blended upon an English background for a comedy 
of English life. This was something novel for the pit ; a spectacle 
kaleidoscopic, rapid, innocuous ; a heart-in-the-mouth ecstasy, a 
circus of many rings. How artistically it was contrived appears when 
one considers the sequence and grouping of the scenes. These fall 
into series, which happen to be five In number; but to Indicate 
them as acts In the text might impair the charade-like simplicity 
of the show. The series are : First^ Scenes I.-iv., four groups and 
four environments, the material of all future combinations of scene 
and sensation : the courtiers on the country side — chivalric and 
idyllic; the doctors and the colleges — scholastic, necromantic; the 
country folk and their fair — pastoral, romantic ; the royal residence 
and the court — spectacular ; time, about two days. Second^ Scenes 
v.-vll., Oxford : street, cell, and regent-house — the riotous, magi- 
cal, romantic, and spectacular ; apparently the day after Scene I., but 
actually some two days. Third^ Scenes vlli.-x., the next day : 
country, college, and country again — romance, black art, peril, 
and pathos. Fourth^ Scenes xi.-xiii., sixty days later ; college, court, 



Robert Greene 429 

and college — magic, majesty, and collapse of the supernatural. 
Fifth^ Scenes xiv.— xvi., the next day : country, college, and court — 
mock heroics and the pastoral, burlesque of the supernatural, the 
smile of royalty, and couleur de rose. Throughout, the action is 
sustained, the crises are frequent, the reversals of fortune unex- 
pected and absorbing, the suspense sufficient. 

In spite of the author's efforts to make a prig of Margaret, 
and in spite of all disparity between her station and her style, the 
" lovely star of Fressingfield " shines first and fairest of her daugh- 
ters in English comedy, — of country wenches born to conquer. 
Innocent, coy, standing upon her " honest points," she is neither 
unsophisticated nor crude — but a perilous coquette. In wit, yield- 
ing not to the Lincoln earl, and in diplomacy one too many for the 
prince, she hardly needs to warn them or us that she has had lords 
for lovers before. " Stately in her stammell red," she toys with 
Edward, for whom she doesn't care ; but his deputy-lover she corners 
at first chance, and it is then " marriage or no market " with this 
maid. She outplays the irate Prince of Wales by sheer loyalty to 
his rival : '' 'Twas I, not Lacy, stept awry ; " and if her lover be to 
fall, she will join him " in one tomb." When it comes to Lacy's 
desertion of her, the dramatist fills her mouth with piety, but the girl 
bubbles through. As between the convent and the court she vastly 
prefers the latter, and her farewell to the world is eloquent of 
gowns. In spite of the pother with which she welcomes " base 
attire," her "flesh is frayle " ; and when her lover, with "enchant- 
ing face," comes riding back, and the " wedding-robes are in the 
tailor's hands," it doesn't take Peggy long to decide between " God 
or Lord Lacy." In simple dignity she is most like her Greenian 
sisters, Ida and Angelica. But she is also the predecessor of many a 
heroine not so simple as men have thought : of Alfrida in the Knack., 
Bridget in Every Man in his Humour^ Harriet in the Man of Mode., 
Dorinda in the Beaux' Stratagem., Lucinda in the Conscious Lovers, 
As for her lover, his type is that of Alfrida's Ethenwald, more 
manly to be sure than he, but lacking leagues of what a Lacy 
should have been. Even the Post is at pains to apologize for him. 
Still, Lacy excels his master — an ordinary Lothario of the purple, 
noised abroad as generous, admired of his associates and his 



430 Robert Greene 

dramatic creator, but of unregal stuff. In reality, Edward is less 
magnanimous than his counterpart in Lyly's play. If he appears 
more ready than Alexander was to yield his victim, it is only because 
a keeper's daughter and a princess are "sisters under the skin." 
The Castile Elinor awaits him : Edward is as moral as a jelly-fish ; 
and a swap of mistresses is no hardship. The characterization of 
Warren and Ermsbie, though but a score of lines, is clear-cut. 
Blunt Anglo-Saxons they are, prompt with the sword, with women 
dubious — a complementary pair. Also complementary are the 
fools — one of the court, the other of the home: Rafe the jester, 
Miles the blunderer ; the latter halfway between vice and clown. 
Like the clown, he stimulates progress by the spur of his stupid- 
ity ; like the vice, he jogs without concern to his predestined place. 
With Longtongue and Ragan he is of the kin of disputatious ser- 
vants, a brother to Greene's Jenkin, Adam, and Slipper, and, like 
the last two, a " philosopher of toast and ale." Lentulo of the 
Rare Triumphs was an ancient relative of his, and, like him, edu- 
cated in that school whence later proceeded the Dogberrys and 
their cousins german — Poppey, Curtail, and Mouse. This is the 
stock and discipline that Kemp's Gothamites bewray when their 
tongues blossom into counsel. 

Previous Editions and the Present Text. — The first quarto is 
White's, of 1594. The copy in the British Museum (C. 34, c. 37) 
lacks all after 44 from the words, " for to pleasure " (xv. 49) ; that 
in the Duke of Devonshire's library " lacks a leaf between A 3 and 
B, and one at end " (Grosart). Dvce, Ward, and Grosart mention 
a reprint of 1599 ; but I do not find it in B. M. or the Bodleian. 
The quarto which Dr. Ward supposes to be of 1599 (viz. Malone, 
226 in the Bodleian) is exactly like the 1630 quarto, except that it 
lacks the title-page and is badly clipped. The attribution to 1599 
seems to rest upon (i) Malone's Ms. note on the fly-leaf of 1630 
quarto (Bodl. Malone, 227): "See the edit, of 1599 in Vol. 69," 
and (2) the hand-written date, 1599 (probably, also, by Malone) on 
the upper right-hand corner of the first page of the quarto contained 
in the volume 69, which is the Malone 226 mentioned above. But 
that Malone 226 and 227 should be respectively of 1599 and 1630, 
and, nevertheless, identical, would be odd ; especially when we 



Robert Greene 431 

remember that the copyright had been transferred from Mrs. White 
to Mrs. Aldee in 1624, and that Mrs. Aldee's publication of 1630 
was a fresh edition " as it was lately plaid by the Prince Palatine 
his servants." I think that the supposed 1599 copy is of 1630. 
The 1630 edition (another copy of which is in B. M.) varies con- 
siderably from the original of 1594. The copyright passed into 
Oulton's hands in 1640, and in 1655 a new edition appeared. 
Modern issues are those of Dodsley, Dyce, Ward, and Grosart 
(Do., Dy., W., G.), the last of which, alone, retains the original 
forms, those of the Chatsworth, 1594. The present edition follows 
the B. M. quarto of 1594, and, when that ends, Grosart's (Huth 
Library) reprint of the Chatsworth. Variations in the 1630 quartos 
(Malone) have been indicated in the footnotes. Q i stands for ed. 
1594, Q 3 for 1630, Q 4 for 1655. 

Since most of the emendations made by preceding editors plead as 
their excuse the metrical irregularity of the quartos, I have found it 
necessary to justify my retention of the original text, by an explana- 
tion of Greene's metrical practice in this play. This apologia^ 
which, in some degree, applies to all of his plays, will be found in 
the Appendix. We should, perhaps, be troubled with fewer emen- 
dations of the Elizabethan drama if we could bring ourselves to 
believe that playwrights regulated their rhythms more frequently 
than is supposed, by dramatic and rhetorical conditions of utterance; 
and that the plays of the sixteenth century were not written in the 
eighteenth. 

Charles Mills Gayley. 



SCROLL ORNAMENTATION 



THE 

HONORABLE HISTORIE 

of frier Bacon, and frier Bongay. 

As it was plaid by her Maiefties feruants. 

Made by Robert Greene Maifter of Arts. 




VIGNETTE 




LONDON, 

Printed for Edward White, and are to be fold at his fhop, at 

the little North dore of Poules, at the figne of 

the Gun. 1594. 



The Persons of the Play' 

King Henry the Third. 

Edward, Prince of Wales y his Sonne, 

Emperour of Germanie. 

King of Castile. 

Ned Lacie, Earle of Lincoln. 

John Warren, Earle of Sussex. 

Will Ermsbie, a Gentleman. 

Raphe Simnell, the Kings Foole. 

Frier Bacon. 

Miles, Frier Bacons poore Scholer. 

Frier Bungay. 

Jaques Vandermast, a Germaine. 

Burden, Doctor of Oxford and Maister of Brazennose. 

^^^°^ \Doctors of Oxford. 
Clementj •" 

Lambert 1 ^ ^, 

„ } Gentlemen. 

Serlsby j 

Two Schollers, Their So?ines. 

The Keeper of Fresingfield. 

Thomas 



„ . , , ,- Farmers Sonne s, 
Richard 

Constable, Post, Lords, Countrie Clownes, etc. 

Elinor, Daughter to Castile, 

Margret, the Keepers daughter of Fresingfield. 

Jone, a Farmers daughter. 

The HosTESsE at Henly, Mistresse of the Bell. 

A Devill, and a Fiend like Hercules ; a Dragon shooting fire ; etc. 
1 Not in Qtos. 



THE HONOURABLE 

Historie of Frier Bacon 



[Scene First. ^ In, or near, Fremingham\ 

Enter Prince Edward - malco7ite?itedy with Lacy earle of Lmcobi^ John 
Warren earle of Sussex, a?id Ermsbie ge?itiema?i : Raph Simnell the 
kings foole. 

Lacie. Why lookes my lord like to a troubled skie, 
When heavens bright shine is shadow'd with a fogge ? 
Alate 2 we ran the deere, and through the lawndes 
Stript ■* with our nagges the loftie frolicke bucks 
That scudded fore the teisers ^ like the wind : 5 

Nere was the deere of merry Fresingiield 
So lustily puld down by jolly mates, 
Nor sharde the farmers such fat venison, 
So franckly dealt, this hundred yeares before ; 

Nor have^ I scene my lord more frolicke in the chace ; 10 

And now" — changde to a melancholic dumpe ? 

Warren. After the prince got to the keepers lodge. 
And had been jocand in the house awhile. 
Tossing of ^ ale and milke in countrie Cannes : 

1 Scenes not numbered in Qtos. Localities as indicated by W., in general accepted. Fram- 
lingham and Fressingfield, — " Suffolke side." Sc. iv. 33. '^ Q ^v ' Edward the fir u^ 

3 Of late. Cf. Ep. to Farewell to Folly (S. R. 1587). 4 Outstripped. 

^ Hounds that roused and teased the game. Cf. Play of Wether^ 11. 292-293. 

^ * Nor have,' Dy. and W., separate line; but Qtos. , a senarius as here. For metres see 
Appendix ; for this D. 3 b. 

"^ Qtos. and eds. : no dash, but period after 'dumpe.' Appendix C, i h. 

8 Dy. and W., <off.' 

435 



436 The honourable historie of [sc. 

Whether it was the countries sweete content, 15 

Or els the bonny damsell fild us drinke 

That seemd so stately in her stammelP red, 

Or that a qualme did crosse his stomacke then, — 

But straight he fell into his passions. 

Ermshie. Sirra Raphe, what say you to your maister, 20 

Shall he thus all amort ^ live malecontent ? 

Raphe. Heerest thou, Ned ? — Nay, looke if hee will speake to 
me ! 

Edward. What sayst thou to me, foole ? 

Raphe. I preethee, tell me, Ned, art thou in love with the keepers 
daughter ? 26 

Ediuard. How if I be, what then ? 

Raphe. Why, then, sirha. He teach thee how to deceive Love. 

Edward. How, Raphe ? 

Raphe. Marrie sirha Ned, thou shalt put on my cap and my 
coat and my dagger,^ and I will put on thy clothes and thy sword : 
and so thou shalt be my foole. 32 

Edward. And what of this ? 

Raphe. Why, so thou shalt beguile Love ; for Love is such a 
proud scab, that he will never meddle with fooles nor children. Is 
not Raphes counsel good, Ned ? 36 

Edward. Tell me, Ned Lacie, didst thou marke the mayd, 
How lively * in her country-weedes she lookt ? 
A bonier wench all SufFolke cannot yeeld : — 
All SufFolke! nay, all England holds none such. 40 

Raphe. Sirha Will Ermsby, Ned is deceived. 

Ermshie. Why, Raphe ? 

Raphe. He saies all England hath no such, and I say, and He 
stand to it, there is one better in Warwickshire. 

1 A coarse woollen cloth; cf. Eastiv. Hoe ''stammel petticoat," in contempt. Here 
apparently of the kind of red; so, perhaps, Alleyn's Inventory (Collier's Mems. of E. A., 
Shalcesp. Soc. 1841 ) *' A stammel cloke with gould lace." 

^ a la mort, dejected. So, also, Fortunatus in Wily Beguiled " Why, how now, Sophos .'' 
all amort ? " ( Hawkins, Orig. Eng. Drama, 3:358); Old Wi've% Tale, 1. I . 

3 Probably a survival of the Vice's weapon of lath. 

* Dy., G., W., 'lovely.' But Q 3, which in many other particulars corrects Q I, 
retains * lively ' ; so Do. 



i] Frier Bacotf 437 

Warren. How proovest thou that, Raphe ? 45 

Raphe. Why, is not the abbot a learned man, and hath red 
many bookes, and thinkest thou he hath not more learning than 
thou to choose a bonny wench ? yes, I warrant thee, by his whole 
grammer. 

Ermsby. A good reason. Raphe. 50 

Edward. I tell the [e] , Lacie, that her sparkling eyes 
Doe lighten forth sweet Loves alluring fire ; 
And in her tresses she doth fold the lookes 
Of such as gaze upon her golden haire ; 

Her bashfull white, mixt with the mornings red, 55 

Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheekes ; 
Her front is Beauties table,i where she paints 
The glories of her gorgious excellence ; 
Her teeth are shelves of pretious margarites, 

Richly enclosed with ruddie curroll cleves.^ 60 

Tush, Lacie, she is Beauties overmatch. 
If thou survaist her curious imagerie.^ 

Lacie. I grant, my lord, the damsell is as faire 
As simple SufFolks homely towns can yeeld : 

But in the court be quainter* dames than she, 65 

Whose faces are enricht with honours taint,^ 
Whose bewties stand upon the stage of fame, 
And vaunt their trophies in the Courts of Love. 

Edw. Ah, Ned, but hadst thou watcht her as my self, 
And seene the secret bewties of the maid, 70 

Their courtly coinesse were but foolery. 

Ermshie. Why, how watcht you her, my lord ? 

Edward. When as she swept like Venus through the house, — 
And in her shape fast foulded up my thoughtes, — 
Into the milkhouse went I with the maid, ^ 75 

And there amongst the cream-boles she did shine 
As Pallace 'mongst her princely huswiferie : 
She turnd her smocke over her lilly armes. 
And divd them into milke to run her cheese -, 

1 tablet. 2 coral cliflfs. ^ The rare quality of her appearance; cf. viii. 1 6. 

* more exquisite j rarer; so iii. 77. 5 tint. 6 Q i has headline T^e ... 5afo« on each page. 



438 The ho?t our able historie of [sc 

But, whiter than the milke, her cristall skin, 80 

Checked with lines of azur, made her blush ^ 

That art or nature durst bring for compare. 

Ermsbie,^ if thou hadst seene, as I did note it well, 

How Bewtie plaid the huswife, how this girle. 

Like Lucrece, laid her fingers to the worke, 85 

Thou wouldst with Tarquine hazard Roome and all 

To win the lovely mayd of Fresingfield. 

Raphe. Sirha Ned, wouldst faine have her? 

Edward. \f Raphe. 

Raphe. Why, Ned, I have laid the plot in my head ; thou shalt 
have her alreadie. 91 

Edward. He give thee a new coat, and '^ learne me that. 

Raphe. Why, sirra Ned, weel ride to Oxford to Frier Bacon : 
oh, he is a brave scholler, sirra ; they say he is a brave nigromancer, 
that he can make women of devils, and hee can juggle cats into 
costermongers. 96 

Edward. And how then. Raphe ? 

Raphe. Marry, sirrha, thou shalt go to him : and because * thy 
father Harry shall not misse thee, hee shall turne me into thee; and 
He to the court, and He prince it out ; and he shall make thee either 
a silken purse full of gold, or else a fine wrought smocke. 10 1 

Edward. But how shall I have the mayd ? 

Raphe. Marry, sirha, if thou beest a silken purse full of gold, 
then on Sundaies sheele hang thee by her side, and you must not 
say a word. Now, sir, when she comes into a great prease^ of 
people, for feare of the cut-purse, on a sodaine sheele swap^ thee 
into her plackerd," then, sirrha, being there, you may plead for 
your selfe. 108 

Ermsbie. Excellent pollicie ! 

Edward. But how if I be a wrought smocke ? no 

Raphe. Then sheele put thee into her chest and lay thee into 
lavender, and upon some good day sheele put thee on, and at night 

1 << Would have put to the blush any woman that art," etc. 

2 Appendix D, -^ b. 3 < j ' fo^ < ^y ' . < and ' for 'an,' as frequently. 

* so that ; cf. Matthew xx. 3 1 . ^ press. 

* swape. Prov. English for 'sweep.' " placket : here pocket. 



i] Frier Bacon 439 

when you go to bed, then being turnt from a smocke to a man, you 
may make up the match. 

Lacie. Wonderfully wisely counselled, Raphe. 115 

Edward. Raphe shall have a new coate. 

Raphe. God thanke you when I have it on my backe, Ned. 

Edward. Lacie, the foole hath laid a perfect plot ; 
For why our countrie Margret is so coy, 

And standes so much upon her honest pointes, 120 

That marriage, or no market with the mayd. 
Ermsbie, it must be nigroma[n]ticke spels 
And charmes of art that must inchaine her love, 
Or else shall Edward never win the girle. 

Therefore, my wags, weele horse us in the morne, 125 

And post to Oxford to this jolly frier: 
Bacon shall by his magicke doe this deed. 

Warren. Content, my lord ; and thats a speedy way 
To weane these head-strong puppies from the teat. 

Edward. I am unknowne, not taken for the prince; 130 

They onely deeme us frolicke courtiers. 
That revell thus among our lieges game, — 
Therefore I have devis'd a pollicie : 
Lacie, thou knowst next Friday is S. James,i 

And then the country flockes to Harlston^ faire : 135 

Then will the keepers daughter frolicke there, 
And over-shine the troupe of all the maids 
That come to see and to be scene that day. 
Haunt thee disguisd among the countrie-swaines. 
Feign thart a farmers sonne, not far from thence, 140 

Espie her loves, and who she liketh best: 
Coat^ him, and court her, to controU the clowne; 
Say that the courtier tyred all in greene. 
That helpt her handsomly to run her cheese. 
And fild her fathers lodge with venison, I45 

1 See p. 413. ^ Four and one-half miles north of Fressingfield. 

3 Dy. and G., 'to keep alongside of,' Fr. cotoyer. W. explains, 'to pass' and cites 
Hamlet, II. ii. 306. Derivation uncertain ; but the word is here figuratively used 5 as if the 
Prince should say, — <* As a greyhound in coursing goeth endways by his fellow and giveth 
the hare a turn, so do thou outstrip the clown (head him off), court Margaret (give her the 



440 The honourable historie of [sc. 

Commends him, and sends fairings to herselfe. 

Buy some thing worthie of her parentage, 

Not worth her beautie ; for, Lacie, then the faire 

Aftbords no Jewell fitting for the mayd : 

And when thou talkest of me, note if she blush : 1 50 

Oh then she loves ; but if her cheekes waxe pale, 

Disdaine it is. Lacie, send how she fares, 

And spare no time nor cost to win her loves. 

Lacie. I will, my lord, so execute this charge 
As if that Lacie were in love with her. 155 

Edward. Send letters speedily to Oxford of the newes. 

Raphe. And, sirha Lacie, buy me a thousand thousand million 
of fine bels. 

Lacie. What wilt thou do with them. Raphe? 159 

Raphe. Mary, every time that Ned sighs for the keepers daughter. 
He tie a bell about him : and so within three or foure dales I will 
send word to his father Harry, that his sonne, and my maister Ned, 
is become Loves morris dance.^ 

Edward. Well, Lacie, look with care unto thy charge, 
And I will haste to Oxford to the frier, 165 

That he by art and thou by secret gifts 
Maist make me lord of merrie Fresingfield. 

Lacie. God send your honour your^ harts desire. Exeunt. 



[Scene Second. Frier Bacons cell at Brazenno5e\ 

Enter Frier Bacon, with Miles, his poore scholer, with bookes under his arme ; 
with them Burden, Mason, Clement, three Doctors. 

Bacon. Miles, where are you ? 

Miles. Hie sum., doctissime et reverendissime doctor. 

Bacon. Attulisti nos ^ libros meos de necromantia ? 

turn), and thus cut him out." See Ne%u Eng. Diet, on Turberville's Venerie, 246 (1575) 5 
and distinction between 'coring' and 'coasting' or going alongside of. Professor Wagner's 
Der abgesante soil sicb an die seite des landUcben liebhabers heften, so dass ihn dieser nicht los 
iverden kann is somewhat amusing. Cf. " crost, controulde " 2 A. W. A. Sc. xii, 1. 88. 

1 Dy. reads * dancer.' But why not a synecdoche ? ** Ned is become a whole morris-dance 
of himself." 2 Appendix 5, i. Dy. queries * a// your.' ^ nos = nostras. Fleay. 



II] Frier Bacon 441 

Miles. Ecce quam honum et quam jucundum habitare ^ libros in unum ! 

Bacon. Now, maisters of our academlcke state, 5 

That rule in Oxford, Vizroies in your place. 
Whose heads containe maps of the liberall arts. 
Spending your time in deapth of learned skill. 
Why flocke you thus to Bacons secret cell, 

A frier newly stalde in Brazennose ? lO 

Say whats your mind, that I may make replie. 

Burden. Bacon, we hear that long we have suspect, 
That thou art read in magicks mysterie : 
In piromancie, to divine by flames ; 

To tell, by hadromaticke^ ebbes and tides; 15 

By aeromancie to discover doubts. 
To plaine out questions, as Apollo did. 

Bacon. Well, Maister Burden, what of all^ this ? 

Miles. Marie, sir, he doth but fulfill, by rehearsing of these 
names, the fable of the Fox and the Grapes : that which is above 
us pertains nothing to us. 21 

Burden. I tell thee. Bacon, Oxford makes report. 
Nay, England, and the court of Henrie sales, 
Th* art making of a brazen head by art. 

Which shall unfold strange doubts and aphorismes, 25 

And read a lecture in philosophic; 
And, by the helpe of divels and ghastly fiends. 
Thou meanst, ere many yeares or dales be past, 
To compasse England with a wall of brasse. 

Bacon. And what of this ? 30 

Miles. What of this, maister ! why, he doth speak mystically : 
for he knowes, if your skill faile to make a brazen head, yet Mother 
Waters strong ale will fit his turne to make him have a copper-nose. 

Clement. Bacon, we come not greeving at thy skill, 
But joieing that our academic yeelds 35 

A man supposde the woonder of the world : 
For if thy cunning worke these myracles, 
England and Europe shall admire thy fame, 

1 Q I, habi tares. 2 For divination by fire, water ( hydromancy ) , and air, see 

Ward's admirable 0/d English Drama, pp. 222-223. ^ Appendix B, i. 



442 The honourable historie of [sc. 

And Oxford shall in characters of brasse, 

And statues, such as were built up in Rome, 40 

Eternize P'rier Bacon for his art. 

Mason. Then, gentle Frier, tell us thy intent. 

Bacon. Seeing you come as friends unto the frier, 
Resolve you, doctors. Bacon can by bookes 

Make storming Boreas thunder from his cave, 45 

And dimme faire Luna to a darke eclipse. 
The great arch-ruler, potentate of hell, 
Trembles when Bacon bids him, or his fiends, 
Bow to the force of his pentageron.^ 

What art can worke, the frolicke frier knowes; 50 

And therefore will I turne my magicke bookes. 
And straine out nigromancie to the deepe. 
I have contrivd and framde a head of brasse, 
(I made Bslcephon ^ hammer out the stuffe) 

And that by art shall read Philosophic : 55 

And I will strengthen England by my skill. 
That if ten Caesars livd and raignd in Rome, 
With all the legions Europe doth containe. 
They should not touch a grasse of English ground*; 
The worke that Ninus reard at Babylon, 60 

The brazen walles framde by Semiramis, 
Carvd out like to the portall of the sunne. 
Shall not be such as rings the English strond 
From Dover to the market-place of Rie. 

Burden. Is this possible ? 65 

Miles. He bring ye t[w]o or three witnesses. 

Burden. What be those ? 

Miles. Marry, sir, three or foure as honest divels and good com- 
panions as any be in hell. 

Mason. No doubt but magicke may doe much in this ; 70 

For he that reades but mathematicke ^ rules 

1 Probably for * pentagonon ' (cf. xiii. 92) ; here of the pentacle or pentagram, the five- 
rayed star used in magic as a defence against demons. 

2 Belcephon ; cf. Exodus xiv. 2 ; Numbers xxxiii. 7. Ward. 

8 " This damnable art mathematical " (Bp. Hooker, Works, i : 330), meaning < astrological.' 



ii] Frier Bacon 443 

Shall finde conclusions that availe to work 
Wonders that passe the common sense of men. 

Burden. But Bacon roves ^ a bow beyond his reach, 
And tels of more than magicke can performe, 75 

Thinking to get a fame by fooleries. 
Have I not past as farre in state of schooles, 
And red of many secrets ? yet to thinke 
That heads of brasse can utter any voice, 

Or more, to tell of deepe philosophic, 80 

This is a fable iEsop had forgot. 

Bacon. Burden, thou wrongst me in detracting thus; 
Bacon loves not to stufFe himselfe with lies. 
But tell me fore these doctors, if thou dare. 
Of certaine questions I shall move to thee. 85 

Burden. I will : aske what thou can. 

Miles. Marrie, sir, heele straight be on your pickpacke to knowe 
whether the feminine or the masculin gender be most worthie. 

Bacon. Were you not yesterday, Maister Burden, at Henly upon 
the Thembs ? oo 

Burden. I was : what then ? 

Bacon. What booke studied you thereon all night ? 

Burden. I ! none at all ; I red not there a line. 

Bacon. Then, doctors, Frier Bacons art knowes nought. 

Clement. What say you to this, Maister Burden ? doth hee not 
touch you ? g6 

Burden. I passe not of his frivolous speeches. 

Miles. Nay, Master Burden, my maister, ere hee hath done with 
you, will turne you from a doctor to a dunce, and shake you so 
small, that he will leave no more learning in you than is in Balaams 
asse. loi 

Bacon. Maisters, for that learned Burdens skill is deepe. 
And sore he doubts of Bacons cabalisme, 
I'll shew you why he haunts to Henly oft : 

Not, doctors, for to tast the fragrant aire, 1 05 

But there to spend the night in alcumie, 

1 Either v. tr. : < draws ' the long bow ; or 'v. intr. : < ventures in imagination ' a bow- 
shot beyond his capability. 



444 ^^^ honourable historic of [sc 

To multiplie with secret spels of art ; 

Thus privat steales he learning from us all. 

To proove my sayings true, He shew you straight 

The booke he keepes at Henly for himselfe. IIO 

Miles. Nay, now my maister goes to conjuration, take heed. 

Bacon. Maisters,^ stand still, feare not. He shewe you but his 

booke. 

Here he conjures. 

Per omnes deos tnfernales^ Belcephon! 1 14. 

Enter a Woman with a shoulder of mutton on a spity and a Devill. 

Miles. Oh, maister, cease your conjuration, or you spoile all ; 
for heeres a shee divell come with a shoulder of mutton on a spit : 
you have mard the divels supper ; but no doubt hee thinkes our 
colledge fare is slender, and so hath sent you his cooke with a 
shoulder of mutton, to make it exceed. 

Hostesse. Oh, where am I, or whats become of me ? 120 

Bacon. What art thou ? 

Hostesse. Hostesse at Henly, mistresse of the Bell. 

Bacon. How. camest thou heere ? 

Hostesse. As I was in the kitchen mongst the maydes, 
Spitting the meate against ^ supper for my guesse,^ 125 

A motion mooved me to looke forth of dore. 
No sooner had I pried into the yard. 
But straight a whirlewind hoisted me from thence, 
And mounted me aloft unto the cloudes. 

As in a trance I thought nor feared nought, 130 

Nor know I where or whether I was tane. 
Nor where I am, nor what these persons be. 

Bacon. No ? know you not Maister Burden ? 

Hostesse. O yes, good sir, he is my daily guest. — 
What, Maister Burden ! twas but yesternight 135 

That you and I at Henly plaid at cardes. 

1 Appendix D, 3 b. 

2 So Qtos. Do., Dy., W., ''gainst.' On ' guesse ' for 'guests,' Dy. quotes Chamber- 
lain's Pharonnida (1659), ^^- ^^ • ^- '"• P- 53 "• "The empty tables stood for never guess 
came there." 



II] Frier Bacon 445 

Burden. I knowe not what we did. — A poxe of all conjuring 
friars I 

Clement. Now, jolly Frier, tell us, is this the booke 
That Burden is so carefull to looke on ? ^ 140 

Bacon. It is. — But, Burden, tell me now, 
Thinkest thou that Bacons nicromanticke skill 
Cannot performe his head and wall of brasse. 
When he can fetch thine hostesse in such post ? 144 

Miles. He warrant you, maister, if Maister Burden could conjure 
as well as you, hee would have his booke everie night from Henly 
to study on at Oxford. 

Mason. Burden, what, are you mated by this frolicke frier ? — 
Looke how he droops ; his guiltie conscience ^ 

Drives him to bash,^ and makes his hostesse blush. 150 

Bacon. Well, mistres, for I wil not have you mist, 
You shall to Henly to cheere up your guests 
Fore supper ginne. — Burden, bid her adew ; 
Say farewell to your hostesse fore she goes. — 
Sirha, away, and set her safe at home. 155 

Hostesse. Maister Burden, when shall we see you at Henly ? ^ 

Exeu?it Hostesse and the Devil! . 

Burden. The devill take thee and Henly too. 

Miles. Maister, shall I make a good motion ? 

Bacon. Whats that ? 159 

Miles. Marry, sir, nowe that my hostesse is gone to provide sup- 
per, conjure up another spirite, and send Doctor Burden flying after. 

Bacon. Thus, rulers of our accademicke state. 
You have scene the frier frame his art by proofe ; 
And as the colledge called Brazennose 

Is under him, and he the Maister* there, 165 

So surely shall this head of brasse be framde. 
And yeelde forth strange and uncoth aphorismes ; 

1 Q I has 11. 139-140 in prose; but Do., Dy., W., verse. 

2 Be abashed. So Tull'te\ Lo've : *' Like Diana when she basht at Actaeon's presence " ; 
and Orpharion (Grosart's Greene^ VII. 115 and XII. 50). 

* Line 156 : Appendix A, 3 ; and £), i. 

* Properly principal. In Bacon's day Brasenose College was not yet founded. 



446 The honourable historie of [sc. 

And Hell and Heccate ^ shall faile the frier, 
But I will circle England round with brasse. 

Miles. So be it, et nunc et semper^ Amen. Exeunt omnes. 1 70 



[Scene Third. Harlston Faire.~\ 

Enter Margret, the faire mayd of Fresifigfieldy with Thomas, [Richard] 
and JoNE, and other clownes ; Lacie disguised in countrie apparell. 

Thomas. By my troth, Margret, heeres a wether is able to make 
a man call his father whorson : if this wether hold, wee shall have hay 
good cheape, and butter and cheese at Harlston will beare no price. 

Margret. Thomas, maides, when they come to see the faire. 
Count not to make a cope ^ for dearth of hay : 5 

When we have turnd our butter to the salt. 
And set our cheese safely ^ upon the rackes. 
Then let our fathers prise ^ it as they please. 
We countrie sluts of merry Fresingfield 

Come to buy needlesse noughts to make us fine, 10 

And looke that yong men should be francke^ this day, 
And court us with such fairings as they can. 
Phoebus is blythe, and frolicke lookes from heaven. 
As when he courted lovely Semele,^ 

Swearing the pedlers shall have emptie packs, 15 

If that faire wether may make chapmen buy. 

Lacie. But, lovely Peggie, Semele is dead. 
And therefore Phoebus from his pallace pries, 
And, seeing such a sweet and seemly saint, 
Shewes all his glories for to court your selfe. 20 

Margret. This is a fairing, gentle sir, indeed, 
To sooth me up with such smooth flatterie; 
But learne of me, your scofFe's ' to [o] broad before. — 

1 Wagner would read, *' And hell and Hecat shall the friar fail," for *' Hecate rst sonst stets 
ziveisilbig.'" Wrong. Ward cites for the trisyllable, Shakesp., / H. VL, III. ii. 64, and 
Milton, Comus, \. 535. ^ bargain. 3 q ^^ omits. Appendix y^, 2. 

* So Qtos. 1 , 3,4; = * price,' not * prize,' nor as in xiii. 41 . ^ generous. 

^ Margret' s * mythological ' slips are not to be set down to her rustic schooling ; for Lacie' s 
* mythology ' is no better ; nor Greene's. ' So Q 3. ^ i, scoffes. ' Your irony 

is evident on the face of it.' 



Ill] . Frier Bacon 447 

Well, Jone, our bewtiesi must abide their jestes ; 

We serve the turne in jolly Fresingfield. 25 

Jone. Margret,^ a farmers daughter for a farmers son : 
I warrant you, the meanest of us both 
Shall have a mate to lead us from the church. 
But, Thomas, whats the newes ? what, in a dumpe ? 
Give me your hand, we are neere a pedlers shop, — 30 

Out with your purse, we must have fairings now. 

Thomas. Faith, Jone, and shall : He bestow a fairing on you, and 
then we will to the tavern, and snap off a pint of wine or two. 

All this while Lacie whispers Margret /;/ the eare. 

Margret. Whence are you, sir ? of SufFolke ? for your tearmes 
Are finer than the common sort of men.^ 35 

Lacie. Faith, lovely girle, I am of Beckles^ by, 
Your neighbour, not above six miles from hence, 
A farmers sonne, that never was so quaint^ 
But that he could do courtesie to such dames. 

But trust me, Margret, I am sent in charge 40 

From him that reveld in your fathers house, 
And fild his lodge with cheere and venison, 
'Tyred in green ; he sent you this rich purse, 
His token that he helpt you run your cheese. 
And in the milkhouse chatted with your selfe. 45 

Margret. To me? You forget your selfe.^ 

Lacie. Women are often weake in memorie. 

Margret. Oh, pardon sir, I call to mind the man : 
Twere little manners to refuse his gift, 

And yet I hope he sends it not for love; 50 

For we have little leisure to debate of that.*" 

yone. What, Margret ! blush not : mayds must have their loves. 

■^ Q 3> 'beauties.' W. changes to ' duties '(?J. 2 Appendix D, 3 b. 

3 Lines 34, 35, as prose in 2 i- * O" the northern border of Suffolk. 

^ W. explains * shy ' ; but perhaps the word here means ' affectedly nice ' ; in cant phrase, 
* stuck-up.' Cf. Spenser, F. i^, III. vii. 10 [Century). 

^ So Qtos. and G. ** To me ? " says M. with (affected ?) surprise. " Surely you mistake." 
"Ah, just like others of your sex," retorts L., ** oblivious when you please." "Well," 
acknowledges M., "I do remember the man 5 but have we time to waste on his attentions ? " 
Do,, Dy., and W. assign " You . . . self" to Lacie ; but is that necessary ? Appendix C, 2 b. 

' Appendix D, 3 a. 



448 The honourable histoj^ie of [sc. 

Thomas. Nay, by the masse, she lookes pale as if she were 
angrie. 54 

Richard. Sirha, are you of Beckls ? I pray, how dooth Good- 
man Cob? my father bought a horse of him. — He tell you Mar- 
gret, a were good to be a gentlemans jade, for of all things the foule 
hilding could not abide a doongcart. 

Margret \asidi\^ . How different is this farmer from the rest 
That earst as yet hath pleasd my wandring sight ! 60 

His words are wittie, quickened with a smile. 
His courtesie gentle, smelling of the court ; 
Facill and debonaire in all his deeds ; 
Proportiond as was Paris, when, in gray, 

He courted ^Enon in the vale by Troy. 65 

Great lords have come and pleaded for my love : 
Who but the keepers lasse of Fresingfield ? 
And yet me thinks this farmers jolly sonne 
Passeth the prowdest that hath pleasd mine eye. 
But, Peg, disclose not that thou art in love, 70 

And shew as yet no sign of love to him. 
Although thou well wouldst wish him for thy love ; 
Keepe that to thee till time doth serve thy turne, 
To shew the greefe wherein thy heart doth burne. — 
Come, Jone and Thomas, shall we to the faire ? — 75 

You, Beckls man, will not forsake us now ? 

Lac'ie. Not whilst I may have such quaint girls as you. 

Margret. Well, if you chaunce to come by Fresingfield, 
Make but a step into the keepers lodge,^ 

And such poore fare as woodmen can afFoord, 80 

Butter and cheese, creame and fat venison, 
You shall have store, and welcome therewithall. 

Lacie. Gramarcies, Peggie ; looke for me eare long. 

Exeunt omnes. 
1 Appendix A^ 2. 



iv] Frier Bacon 449 

[Scene Fourth. The Court at Hampton House.'] 

Enter Henry the third, the Emperour, the King of Castile, Elinor, his 
daughter, Jaques Vandermast a Germaijie. 

Henrie. Great men of Europe, monarks of the West, 
Ringd with the walls of old Oceanus^ 
Whose loftie surge is ^ like the battelments 
That compast high built Babell in with towers, — 
Welcome, my lords, welcome, brave westerne kings, 5 

To Englands shore, whose promontorie cleeves 
Shewes Albion is another little world : 
Welcome says English Henrie to you all ; 
Chiefly unto the lovely Eleanour, 

Who darde for Edwards sake cut through the seas, 10 

And venture as Agenors damsell through the deepe,^ 
To get the love of Henries wanton sonne. 

Castile. Englands rich monarch, brave Plantagenet. 
The Pyren Mounts swelling above the clouds, 

That ward the welthie Castile in with walles, 15 

Could not detaine the beautious Eleanour ; 
But, hearing of the fame of Edwards youth. 
She darde to brooke Neptunus haughtie pride. 
And bide the brunt of froward Eolus : 
Then may faire England welcome her the more. 20 

Elinor. After that English Henrie by his lords 
Had sent Prince Edwards lovely counterfeit, 
A present to the Castile Elinor, 
The comly pourtrait of so brave a man. 

The vertuous fame discoursed of his deeds, 25 

Edwards couragious resolution. 
Done at the Holy Land fore Damas^ walles. 
Led both mine eye and thoughts in equall links. 
To like so of the English monarchs sonne. 
That I attempted perrils for his sake. 30 

J So Dy., G., W. But Qtos. and Do. surges. 2 Appendix E. 

3 He never fought before Damascus. Ward. For 'done,' Dy. queries 'shown.' 



450 The honourable historie of \}c, 

Emperour. Where is the prince, my lord ? 

Henrie. He posted down, not long since, from the court, 
To SufFolke side, to merrie Fremingham,^ 
To sport himselfe amongst my fallow deere ; 

From thence, by packets sent to Hampton ^ house, 35 

We heare the prince is ridden with his lords 
To Oxford, in the academie there 
To heare dispute amongst the learned men. 
But we will send foorth letters for my sonne, 
To will him come from Oxford to the court. 40 

Empe. Nay, rather, Henrie, let us, as we be. 
Ride for to visite Oxford with our traine. 
Faine would I see your universities. 
And what learned men your academie yields. 

From Haspurg ^ have I brought a learned clarke 45 

To hold dispute with English orators : 
This doctor, surnamde Jaques Vandermast, 

A Germaine borne, past into Padua, • 

To Florence and to fair Bolonia, 

To Paris, Rheims, and stately Orleans, 50 

And, talking there with men of art, put downe 
The chiefest of them all in aphorismes,^ 
In magicke, and the mathematicke rules : 
Now let us, Henrie, trie him in your schooles. 

Henrie. He shal, my lord ; this motion likes me wel. 55 

Weele progresse straight to Oxford with our trains. 
And see what men our academie bringes. — 
And, woonder Vandermast, welcome to me : 
In Oxford shalt thou find a jollie frier, 

Cald Frier Bacon, Englands only flower : 60 

Set him but non-plus in his magicke spels, 
And make him yeeld in mathematicke rules, 
And for thy glorie I will bind thy browes, 

1 Not crown property in Henry Ill's reign ; nor was Hampton crown property, till Wolsey, 
who had built the house, exchanged it with Henry VIII for Richmond. Ward. 

2 Hapsburg. In lines 37, 44, etc., pronounce 'academie.' 

3 Statement of scientific principles. Cf. ' Aphorisms ' of Hippocrates, 



v] Frier Bacon 451 

Not with a poets garland ^ made of baies, 

But with a coronet of choicest gold. 65 

Whilst then we set ^ to Oxford with our troupes, 

Lets in and banquet in our English court. Exit. 

[Scene Fifth. A Street in Oxford^ 

Enter Raphe Simnell in Edwardes apparell ; Edward, Warren, Ermsby, 

disguised. 

Raphe. Where be these vacabond knaves, that they attend no 
better on their master ? 

Edward. If it please your honour, we are all ready at an inch.^ 

Raphe. Sirrha Ned, He have no more post horse to ride on : He 
have another fetch.* 5 

Ermshie. I pray you, how is that, my lord ? 

Raphe. Marrie, sir. He send to the He of Eely for foure or five 
dozen of geese, and He have them tide six and six together with 
whipcord : now upon their backes will I have a faire field bed with 
a canapie; and so, when it is my pleasure. He flee into what place I 
please. This will be easie. 1 1 

Warren. Your honour hath said well : but shall we to Brasennose 
Colledge before we pull off our bootes ? 

Ermshie. Warren, well motion'd ; wee will to the frier 
Before we revell it within the towne. — 15 

Raphe, see that you keepe your countenance like a prince. 

Raphe. Wherefore have I such a companie of cutting^ knaves 
to wait upon me, but to keep and defend my countenance against 
all mine enemies ? have you not good swords and bucklers ? 
Enter Bacon and Miles. 

Ermshie. Stay, who comes heere ? 20 

1 As in the laureation which accompanied the conferring of the academic degree in Grammar. 

2 So Dy. and W. Cf. H. V., Prol. to Act II. 34. Q i, fit : which cannot be the 'v. tr., 
* to array ' or ' marshal ' (see Morte Arthur, 1755, etc., as in N. E. D.). G. suggests * fet,' 
which avails nothing. Q 3 has ' sit,' which was probably intended for * set.' 

3 For the emergency. Gf. Fletcher, Loyal Subject, IV. ii. 

4 Dodge. So Redford's ff^it. and Sc, " The fechys of Tediousnes " j cf. Lear II. iv. 
^ Swaggering. Like Cowley's Cutter. 



452 The honourable hist or ie of [sc. 

Warren. Some scholler ; and weele aske him where Frier Bacon is. 

Bacon. Why, thou arrant dunce, shal I never make thee good 
scholler ? doth not all the towne crie out and say. Frier Bacons 
subsiser is the greatest blockhead in all Oxford ? why, thou canst 
not speake one word of true Latine. 25 

Miles. No, sir ? Yes.^ What is this els ? Ego sum tuus homo., ' I 
am your man ' ; I warrant you, sir, as good Tullies phrase as any is 
in Oxford. 

Bacon. Come on, sirha ; what part of speech is Ego ? 

Miles. Ego., that is ' I ' ; marrie, nomen substantivo. 30 

Bacon. How proove you that ? 

Miles. Why, sir, let him proove himselfe and a will ; ' I ' can 
be hard, felt, and understood. 

Bacon. O grosse dunce ! 

Here be ate him. 

Edw. Come, let us breake off this dispute between these two. — 
Sirha, where is Brazennose Colledge ? 36 

Miles. Not far from Copper-smithes Hall. 

Edward. What, doest thou mocke me ? 

Miles. Not I, sir : but what would you at Brazennose ? 

Ermsbie. Marrie, we would speak with Frier Bacon. 40 

Miles. Whose men be you ? 

Ermsbie. Marrie, scholler, heres our maister. 

Raphe. Sirha, I am the maister of these good fellowes ; mayst 
thou not know me to be a lord by my reparrell ? 44 

Miles. Then heeres good game for the hawke ; for heers the 
maister foole and a covie of cocks combs : one wise man, I thinke, 
would spring you all. 

Edward. Gogs wounds ! Warren, kill him. 

Warren. Why, Ned, I think the devill be in my sheath ; I can- 
not get out my dagger. 50 

Ermsbie. Nor I mine : swones, Ned, I think I am bewitcht. 

Miles. A companie of scabbes ! the proudest of you all drawe 
your weapon if he can. — 

See how boldly I speake, now my maister is by. \^Astde.'\ 

1 So gtos. = " Can't I ? Yes, I can." Dy. and W., unnecessarily : ' Yet, what,' etc. 



f] Frier Bacon 



453 



Edward. I strive in vaine ; but if my sword be shut 55 

And conjur'd fast by magicke in my sheath, 
Villaine, heere is my fist. 

Strikes him a box on the eare. 

Miles. Oh, I beseech you conjure his hands too, that he may not 
lift his armes to his head, for he is light fingered ! 

Raphe. Ned, strike him ; He warrant thee by mine honour. 60 

Bacon. What meanes the English prince to wrong my man ? 

Edward. To whom speakest thou ? 

Bacon. To thee. 

Edward. Who art thou ? ^ 

Bacon. Could you not judge when all your swords grew fast, 65 
That Frier Bacon was not farre from hence ? 
Edward, King Henries sonne and Prince of Wales, 
Thy foole disguisd^ cannot conceale thy self: 
I know both Ermsbie and the Sussex earle, 

Els Frier Bacon had but little skill. 70 

Thou comest in post from merrie Fresingfield, 
Fast fancied to the keepers bonny lasse. 
To crave some succour of the jolly frier : 
And Lacie, Ear[l]e of Lincolne, hast thou left 

To treat fair Margret to allow thy loves ; 75 

But friends are men, and love can bafile lords ; 
The earl both woes and courtes her for himselfe. 

Warren. Ned, this is strange ; the frier knoweth al. 

Ermsbie. Appollo could not utter more than this. 

Edward. I stand amazed to heare this jolly frier 80 

Tell even the verie secrets of my thoughts. — 
But, learned Bacon, since thou knowest the cause 
Why I did post so fast from Fresingfield, 
Helpe, Frier, at a pinch, that I may have 

The love of lovely Margret to my selfe, ' S5 

And, as I am true Prince of Wales, He give 

1 On Edw.'s abrupt utterances, see Appendix C. On these lines C, i d. * 

2 W. : * thy fool disguise.' But Bacon means "That fool parading in your clothes does 
not deceive me as to your identity," 



454 "I"^^ honourable historie of [sc 

Living and lands to strength thy colledge state. 

Warren. Good Frier, helpe the prince in this. 

Raphe, Why, servant Ned, will not the frier doe it ? Were not 
my sword glued to my scabberd by conjuration, I would cut off his 
head, and make him do it by force. 91 

Miles. In faith, my lord, your manhood and your sword is all 
alike; they are so fast conjured that we shall never see them. 

Ermshie. What, doctor, in a dumpe ! tush, helpe the prince. 
And thou shalt see how liberall he will proove. 95 

Bacon. Crave not such actions greater dumps than these ? 
I will, my lord, straine out my magicke spels ; 
For this day comes the earle to Fresingfield, 
And fore that night shuts in the day. with darke, 
Theile be betrothed ech to other fast. 1 00 

But come with me ; weele to my studie straight, 
And in a glasse prospective I will shew 
Whats done this day in merry Fresingfield. 

Edward. Gramercies, Bacon ; I will quite thy paine. 

Bacon. But send your traine, my lord, into the towne : 105 

My scholler shall go bring them to their inne : 
Meane while weele see the knaverie of the earle. 

Edward. Warren, leave me : — and, Ermsbie, take the foole ; 
Let him be maister, and go revell it. 
Till I and Frier Bacon talke a while. no 

Warren. We will, my lord. 

Raphe. Faith, Ned, and He lord it out till thou comest : 
He be Prince of Wales over all the blacke pots ^ in Oxford. Exeunt. 



[Scene Sixth. Frier Bacons cell in Brazennose.~\ 

Bacon, and Edward, goes into the study. "^ 

Bacon. Now, frolick Edward, welcome to my cell ; 
Heere tempers Frier Bacon many toies, 

l*Cf. X. 3 : (black) jacks, leathern wine-jugs. 

2 After Bacon and Edw. had walked a few paces about (or perhaps toward the back of) the 
stage, the audience were to suppose that the scene was changed to the interior of Bacon's cell. Dyce. 



vi] Frier Bacon 455 

And holds this place his consistorie court, 

Wherein the divels pleads ^ homage to his words. 

Within this glasse prospective thou shalt see 5 

This day whats done in merry Fresingfield 

Twixt lovely Peggie and the Lincolne earle. 

Edward. Frier, thou gladst me : now shall Edward trie 
How Lacie meaneth to his soveraigne lord. 
Bacon. Stand there and looke directly in the glasse. ic. 

Enter Margaret and Frier Bungay. ^ 

What sees my lord ? 

Edward. I see the keepers lovely lasse appeare, 
As bright-sunne^ as the parramour of Mars, 
Onelv attended by a jolly frier. 

Bacon. Sit still, and keepe the cristall in your eye. 15 

Margret. But tell me. Frier Bungay, is it true 
That this fair^ courtious countrie swaine. 
Who saies his father is a farmer nie. 
Can be Lord Lacie, Earle of Lincolnshire ? 

Bun. Peggie, tis true, tis Lacie for my life, 20 

Or else mine art and cunning both doth faile. 
Left by Prince Edward to procure his loves ; 
For he in greene, that holpe you runne your cheese, 
Is Sonne to Henry, and the Prince of Wales. 

Margret. Be what he will, his lure is but for lust: 25 

But did Lord Lacie like poor Marg[a]ret, 
Or would he daine to wed a countrie lasse,^ 
Frier, I would his humble handmayd be. 
And for great wealth quite him with courtesie. 

Bungay. Why, Margret, doest thou love him ? 30 

1 Common construction; but Q 3, *pleade.' Metre, Appendix 5, 2. 

■^ Perhaps the curtain which concealed the upper stage was withdrawn, discovering M. and 
B. , and, when the representation in the glass was supposed to be over, the curtain was drawn 
back again. Dyce. 

3 So Qtos. May be unintentional metathesis for * sunne-bright. ' But eds. all adopt Do.'s 
* brightsome,' which has additional authority of Alphonsus IV. p. 240 a (Dyce ed. ). 

* Dy. ' fair ivitty ' for metre, arguing from iii. 61 ; vi. 33-35. But the original reading 
is sufficiently metrical. See Appendix B, i ; and C, i a. 

^ Q 3 and G., * lasse ? ' Wrong, for the clauses are conditional. 



456 The honourable historie of [sc. 

Margret. His personage, like the pride of vaunting Troy, 
Might well avouch to shadow^ Hellen's scape : 2 
His wit is quicke and readie in conceit. 
As Greece afFoorded in her chiefest prime : 

Courteous, ah Frier, full of pleasing smiles ! 35 

Trust me, I love too much to tell thee more; 
Suffice to me he is Englands parramour.^ 

Bun. Hath not ech eye that viewd thy pleasing face 
Surnamed thee Faire Maid of Fresingfield ? 

Margret. Yes, Bungay ; and would God the lovely earle 40 

Had that in esse that so many sought. 

Bungay. Feare not, the frier will not be behind 
To shew his cunning to entangle love. 

Edward. I thinke the frier courts the bonny wench:* 
Bacon, me thinkes he is a lustie churle. 45 

Bacon. Now looke, my lord. 

Enter Lacie. 

Edward. Gogs wounds. Bacon, heere comes Lacie ! ^ 
Bacon. Sit still, my lord, and marke the commedie. 
Bungay. Heeres Lacie, Margret ; step aside awhile. 

[They withdraw.'^ 

Lacie [W«j] . Daphne, the damsell that caught Phaebus fast, 50 
And lockt him in the brightnesse of her lookes. 
Was not so beautious in Appollos eyes 
As is faire Margret to the Lincolne earle ; — 
Recant thee, Lacie — thou art put in trust: 

Edward, thy soveraignes Sonne, hath chosen thee, 55 

A secret friend, to court her for himself, 

1 Cover with an excuse. Ward. 

2 Qtos. ' cape,' which might be justified as = capture. (See N. E. D. for the verb; and 
of. Greene's fondness for coining from the Latin, e.g. nocent in J as.., ^^O D°- suggests and 
eds. adopt 'rape.' But my reading is confirmed by Orl. Fur.^ Sc. i. 176, concerning Helen, 
who, "With a swaine rmide scape away to Troy," = escape. In Q i of our text the 's' was 
absorbed by the preceding possessive. 

3 W. conjectures ' paragon ' ; but Greene had a weakness for ' paramour.' 
* Note that the prince does not hear what the audience hears. 

5 For metre of 11. 47, 108, 127, 146, 176, App. C, z a. 



VI] Frier Bacon 457 

And darest thou wrong thy prince with trecherie ? — 

Lacie, love makes no exception ^ of a friend, 

Nor deemes it of a prince but as a man. 

Honour bids thee control! ^ him in his lust; 6o 

His wooing is not for to wed the girle, 

But to intrap her and beguile the lasse. 

Lacie, thou lovest, then brooke not such abuse, 

But wed her, and abide thy prince's frowne ; ^ 

For better* die than see her live disgracde. 65 

Margret. Come, Frier, I will shake him from his dumpes. — 

TT L -3 ■ c L 1- I \Advancing.'\ 

How cheere you, sir r a penie for your thought ! 

Your early up, pray God it be the neere : ^ 

What, come from Beckles in a morne so soone ? 

Lacie. Thus watchfull are such men as live in love, 70 

Whose eyes brooke broken slumbers for their sleepe. 
I tell thee, Peggie, since last Harlston faire 
My minde hath felt a heape of passions. 

Mar, A trustie man, that court it for your friend : 
Woo you still for the courtier all in greene? — 75 

\Aside.^ I marvell that he sues not for himselfe. 

Lacie. Peggie, I pleaded first to get your grace for him ; 
But when mine eies survaid your beautious lookes. 
Love, like a wagge, straight dived into my heart, 
And there did shrine the Idea^ of your selfe. 80 

Pittie me, though I be a farmers sonne. 
And measure not my riches, but my love. 

Margret. You are verie hastie ; for to garden well. 
Seeds must have time to sprout before they spring : 
Love ought to creepe as doth the dials shade, 85 

For timely^ ripe is rotten too too ^ soone. 

Bungay \advancing\ . Deus hie ; roome for a merrie frier ! 
What, youth of Beckles, with the keepers lasse ? 
Tis well ; but tell me, heere you any newes ? 

1 Q 3. Q 1 has acception ; so also Orpharion (Gros, xii. 50). See Appendix A, i and 3. 

2 As in i. 142. 3 Cf. Ethenwald's soliloquy in Kn. Kn. Kn. (H. Dods. VI. 543-544). 
* Q 3 omits. ^ nearer, luckier. ^ image. '^ So x. \ih — prematurely 
^ Altogether too. So Heywood, Jobann,, 1. 183, and frequently. Still heard in New England. 



458 The honourable historie of . [sc 

Margret} No, Frier : what newes ? 90 

Bungay. Heere you not how the pursevants do post 
With proclamations through ech country towne ? 

Lade. For what, gentle frier ? tell the newes. 

Bun, Dwelst thou in Beckles, & heerst not of these news ? 
Lacie, the Earle of Lincolne, is late fled 95 

From Windsor court, disguised like a swaine. 
And lurkes about the countrie heere unknowne. 
Henrie suspects him of some trecherie. 
And therefore doth proclaime in every way. 

That who can take the Lincolne earle shall have, 100 

Paid in the Exchequer, twentie thousand crownes. 

Lacie. The Earle of Lincoln ! Frier, thou art mad : 
It was some other; thou mistakest the man. 
The earle of Lincolne ! why, it cannot be. 

Margret. Yes, verie well, my lord, for you are he : 105 

The keepers daughter tooke you prisoner. 
Lord Lacie, yeeld. He be your gailor once. 

Edward. How familiar they be. Bacon ! 

Bacon. Sit still, and marke the sequell of their loves. 

Lacie. Then am I double prisoner to thy selfe : 1 10 

Peggie, I yeeld. But are these newes in jest P^ 

Margret. In jest with you, but earnest unto me ; 
For why these wrongs do wring me at the heart. 
Ah, how these earles and noble men of birth 
Flatter and faine to forge poore womens ill ! 115 

Lacie. Beleeve me, lasse, I am the Lincolne earle : 
I not denie but, tyred thus in rags, 
I lived disguisd to winne faire Peggies love. 

Margret. What love is there where wedding ends not love? 

Lacie. I meant,^ faire girle, to make thee Lacies wife. 120 

Margret. I litle thinke that earles wil stoop so low. 

Lacie. Say shall I make thee countesse ere I sleep ? 

Margret. Handmaid unto the earle, so please him selfe : 
A wife in name, but servant in obedience. 

1 Dy. and W. assign to Lacie 5 but Qtos. as above. Momentarily even Margaret is deceived 
(or she pretends to be deceived) by Bungay's ** cunning." 2 g j . injest. 

s Dy., W., * mean ' j needlessly. 



vi] Frier Bacon 459 

Lacie. The Lincolne countesse, for it shalbe so: 125 

He plight the bands, and scale it with a kisse. 

Edward. Gogs wounds, Bacon, they kisse ! He stab them. 

Bacon. Oh, hold your handcs, my lord, it is the glasse ! 

Edward. Coller to see the traitors gree so well 
Made me ^ thinke the shadowes substances. 130 

Bacon. Twere a long poihard, my lord, to reach betweene 
Oxford and Fresingfield ; but sit still and see more.2 

Bungay. Well, Lord of Lincolne, if your loves be knit, 
And that your tongues and thoughts do both agree, 
To avoid insuing jarres. He hamper up the match : 135 

He take my portace^ forth and wed you heere. 
Then go to bed and scale up your desires. 

Lacie. Frier, content. — Peggie, .how like you this ? 

Margret. What likes my lord is pleasing unto me. 

Bungay. Then hand-fast hand, and I wil to my booke. 140 

Bacon. What sees my lord now ? 

Edward, Bacon, I see the lovers hand in hand, 
The frier readie with his portace there 
To wed them both : then am I quite undone. 

Bacon, helpe now, if e'er thy magicke servde ! — 145 

Helpe, Bacon ; stop the marriage now. 
If divels or nigromancie may suffice. 
And I will give thee fortie thousand crownes. 

Bacon. Feare not, my lord. He stop the jolly frier 
For* mumbling up ^ his orisons this day. 150 

Lacie. Why speakst not, Bungay ? Frier, to thy booke. 

1 Lines 130, 161, Appendix C, i a. 

'^ Lines 131-132: Dy., *' Is this a prose speech or corrupted verse ? " Neither; see 
Appendix D, 3 a. 

3 A breviary for out-of-door use. Cf. Neiv Cust., 1. ii. (H. Dods. IIL ) and Conji. Consc. 
in, iv. (Caconos). 

* So Qtos. , meaning * in respect of 5 and W. in his first ed. Wagner [Anglia, Vol. II.) 
would change to 'from,' saying ^^ for mumbling wiirde heissen 'ich will ihn zum stillstand bringen 
dafiir dass er ableiert. ' " Let us rather trust Greene for English. Cf his Ep. Ded. to Orpha- 
rion, ** Else shall you discourage a gardener for grafting" ; also his Ne'ver Too Late (ed. 
I59°)> "A hat . . . shelter ybr the sun," etc. The word means * in respect of,' 'with 
regard to,' and then ' against ' and ' from,' as here. (See, also, A^. E. D. : For 23. d.) 

5 In sense of 'finishing.' Cf iii. 22; vi. 159; xii. 21; A/ph., "soothe up"^(ed. 
Dyce, p. 241). 



460 The honourable historic of [sc 

Bungay is mute, crying^ * Hud, hud.' 

Margret. How lookest thou, Frier, as a man distraught ? 
Reft of thy sences, Bungay ? shew by signes. 
If thou be dum, what passions^ holdeth thee. 

Lacie. Hees dumbe indeed : Bacon hath with his divels 155 

Enchanted him, or else some strange disease 
Or appoplexie hath possest his lungs : 
But, Peggie, what he cannot with his booke, 
Weel twixt us both unite it up in heart. 

Margret. Els let me die, my lord, a miscreant. 160 

Edward. Why stands Frier Bungay ^ so amazd ? 

Bacon. I have strook him dum, my lord ; &, if your honor 
please,^ 
He fetch this Bungay straightway from Fresingfield,^ 
And he shall dine with us in Oxford here. 

Edward. Bacon, doe that, and thou contentest me. 165 

Lacie. Of courtesie, Margret, let us lead the frier • 
Unto thy fathers lodge, to comfort him 
With brothes, to bring him from this haplesse trance. 

Margret. Or els, my lord, we were passing unkinde 
To leave the frier so in his distresse. 170 

Enter a Devill and carrie Bungay on his backe. 

Margret. O, helpe, my lord ! a devill, a devill, my lord ! 
Looke how he carries Bungay on his backe ! 
Let's hence, for Bacons spirits be abroad. Exeunt. 

Edward. Bacon, I laugh to see the jolly frier 
Mounted upon the divell, and how the earle 175 

Flees with his bonny lasse for feare. 
Assoone as Bungay is at Brazennose, 
And I have chatted with the merry frier, 
I will in post hie me to Fresingfield, 
And quite these wrongs on Lacie ere it be long. 180 

1 Q I. But Do., Dy., modernizing Elizabethan grammar, read * passion. 

2 Q I (B. M.)Bacon, corrected in a handwritten ' Bungay ' 
8 Line 162, Appendix D, '^ a -^ 163, D 2. 



vu] Frier Bacon 461 

Bacon. So be it, my lord : but let us to our dinner; 
For ere we have taken our repast awhile. 
We shall have Bungay brought to Brazennose. Exeunt, 



[Scene Seventh. The Regenthouse at Oxford^ 

Enter three doctors. Burden, Mason, Clement. 

Mason. Now that we are gathered in the Regenthouse,^ 
It fits us talke about the kings repaire; 
For he, troopt^ with all the westerne kings, 
That lie alongst the Dansick seas by east, 

North by the clime of frostie Germanie, 5 

The Almain monarke and the Saxon 3 duke, 
Castile and lovely Ellinor with him, 
Have in their jests resolved for Oxford towne. 

Burden. We must lay plots of stately tragedies, 
Strange comick showes, such as proud Rossius* lO 

Vaunted before the Romane emperours, 
To welcome all the westerne potentates.^ 

Clement. But more; the king by letters hath foretold 
That Fredericke, the Almaine emperour. 

Hath brought with him a Germane of esteeme, 15 

Whose surname is Don Jaquesse Vandermast, 
Skilfull in magicke and those secret arts. 

Mason. Then must we all make sute unto the frier, 
To Frier Bacon, that he vouch this taske. 

And undertake to countervaile in skill 20 

The German ; els theres none in Oxford can 
Match and dispute with learned Vandermast. 

Burden. Bacon, if he will hold the German play, 
Will 6 teach him what an English frier can doe; 
The divell, I thinke, dare not dispute with him. 25 

1 Greene has in mind the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. 

2 Appendix C, i h. ^ Do.'s suggestion for Qtos. ' Scocon. 
* Died B.C. 62. Cf. Never too Late, Pt. I. (1590). 

5 So Dyce ; but Qtos. and Do. give the line to Clement. ^ Q i> Weele 



462 The honourable historie of [sc. 

Clement. Indeed, mas doctor, he [dis ^] pleasured you, 
In that he brought your hostesse with her spit, 
From Henly, posting unto Brazennose. 

Burden. A vengeance on the frier for his paines ! 
But leaving that, lets hie ^ to Bacon straight, 30 

To see if he will take this taske in hand. 

Clement. Stay, what rumor is this ? The towne is up in a 
mutinie : what hurly burlie is this ? 

Enter a Constable, with Raphe, Warren, Ermsbie, and Miles. 

Constable. Nay, maisters, if you were nere so good, you shall 
before the doctors to aunswer your misdemeanour. 35 

Burden. Whats the matter, fellow ? 

Constable. Marrie, sir, heres a companie of rufflers,^ that, drink- 
ing in the taverne, have made a great braule, and almost kilde the 
vintner. 

Miles. Salve.^ Doctor Burden ! ^ This lubberly lurden,^ 40 

Ill-shapte and ill faced, disdaind and disgraced, 
What he tels unto vobis mentitur de nobis. 

Burden. Who is the maister and cheefe of this crew ? 

Miles. Ecce asinum mundi fugura^ rotundi.^ 

Neat, sheat '^ and fine, as briske as a cup of wine. 45 

Burden. What are you ? 

Raphe. I am, father doctor, as a man would say, the belwether 
of this company : these are my lords, and I the Prince of Wales. 
Clement. Are you Edward, the kings sonne ? 49 

Raphe. Sirra Miles, bring hither the tapster that drue the wine, 

1 Inserted by Do., Dy., W. G. prefers ' ill.' ^ Q 3 omits. Do. : *let «i to Bacon.' 

3 bullies. Cf. Shaksp., Tit. And., I. i. 313. 

* Skeltonical verse. Qtos. print thus, but Do., Dy., W., in couplets. ^ heavy head. 

^ So Q I. Miles is responsible for the Latin 5 cf. babitares Sc. ii. 4. The asinus mundi 
is, of course. Raphe. 

'' W. omits 'sheat.' G. reads, 'Neat, sheat, and [as] fine, as a briske cup of wine.' 
Qtos. have comma after 'neat,' making 'sheat' an adjective, for which Cent. Diet, suggests 
the meaning 'trim.' Poppey, in Lodge's Wounds of Civil War (H. Dods. VIL 191), 
says, " Fair, fresh and fine, As a merry cup of wine." 



vii] Frier Bacon 463 

and, I warrant, when they see how soundly I have broke his head, 
theile say twas done by no lesse man than a prince. 

Mason. I cannot beUeve that this is the Prince of Wales. 

Warren. And why so, sir ? 

Mason. For they say the prince is a brave & a wise gentleman. 

War. Why, and thinkest thou, doctor, that he is not so? 56 
Darst thou detract and derogat from him, 
Being so lovely and so brave a youth ? 

Ermshie. Whose face, shining with many a sugred smile, 
Bewraies that he is bred of princely race. 60 

Miles. And yet, maister doctor, to speake like a proctor. 
And tell unto you what is veriment and true :' 
To cease of this quarrell, looke but on his apparell;- 
Then marke but my talis, he is great Prince of Walis, 
The cheef of our gregis., 2.n^ filius regis : 65 

Then ware what is done, for he is Henries white ^ son. 

Raphe. Doctors, whose doting nightcaps ^ are not capable of my 
ingenious dignitie, know that I am Edward Plantagenet, whom if 
you displease wilH make a shippe that shall hold all your colleges, 
and so carrie away the niniversity with a fayre wind to the Banke- 
side in Southwarke. — How sayst thou, Ned Warraine, shall I 
not do it ? 72 

Warren. Yes, my good lord ; and, if it please your lordship, I wil 
gather up all your old pantophles, and with the corke^ make you a 
pinnis of five-hundred tunne, that shall serve the turne marvellous 
well, my lord. 76 

Ermsbie. And I, my lord, will have pioners to undermine the 
towne, that the very gardens and orchards be carried away for your 
summer-walkes. 

Miles. And, I, with scientia and great diligentia^ 80 

Will conjure and charme, to keepe you from harme ; 

1 dear : Lk. GL, 148 l ; R. D., I. i. 49 ; and frequently. In American slang, to-day, * good- 
natured.' '^ Perhaps the caps of Doctors of Law and Physic. Ward. 

3 Dy., W., careful of R.'s grammar, read ' /will.' 

* From the inner sole. Peg in ff^i/y Beg. (Hawkins III. 356) glories in ' cork'd shoes.' 
Ward. So also Mall in 2 A. W. A. "iii. 167. 



464 The honourable historie of [sc 

That utrum horum mavis^ your very great navis^ 

Like Bartlets ^ ship, from Oxford do skip 

With colleges and schooles, full loaden with fooles. 

^id dices ad hoc^ worshipfull Domine Dawcocke ? ^ 85 

Clement. Why, harebraind courtiers, are you drunke or mad, 
To taunt us with such scurilitie ? 
Deeme you us men of base and light esteeme, 
To bring us such a fop for Henries son ? — 

Call out the beadl[e]s and convay them hence 90 

Straight to Bocardo : ^ let the roisters lie 
Close clapt in bolts, untill their wits be tame. 

Ermsbie. Why, shall we to prison, my lord ? 

Raphe. What saist. Miles, shall I honour the prison with my 
presence ? 95 

Miles. No, no : out with your blades, and hamper these jades ; 
Have a flurt and a crash, now play revell dash, 
And teach these sacerdos that the Bocardos, 
Like pezzants and elves, are meet for themselves.* 

Mason. To the prison with them, constable. lOO 

Warren. Well, doctors, seeing I have sported me 

With laughing at these mad and merrie wagges, 

Know that Prince Edward is at Brazennose, 

And this, attired like the Prince of Wales, 

Is Raphe, King Henries only loved foole; 105 

I, Earle of Sussex,^ and this Ermsbie, 

One of the privie chamber to the king ; 

Who, while the prince with Frier Bacon stales. 

Have revel'd it in Oxford as you see. 

Mason. My lord, pardon us, we knew not what you were : no 

1 So Qtos. The mistake for Barclay is as likely to be Miles' s as the compositor's. 

2 Do., Dy., W. change to dici$. A parody of Construas hoc, etc., in Skelton's fVare the 
Hauke. Dyce. So, for a fool, Ingeland's Disoh. Child (H. Dods. II. 285) ; and frequently. 
Cf. 'Woodcock' in Johanti, and Hamlet, I. iii. 115. 

2 Old north gate, Oxford, used as a prison ; taken down, 1771. As hard to get out of as 
the Bocardo mood of the syllogisrn. Dyce and Ward. 

* *' Are meet for just such low-born devils as they are." ^ Qtos., Essex. 



viii] Frier Bacon 465 

But courtiers may make greater skapes than these. 
Wilt please your honour dine with me to-day ? 

Warren, I will, maister doctor, and satisfie the vintner for his 
hurt ; only I must desire you to imagine him i all the forenoon the 
Prince of Wales. 115 

Mason, I will, sir. 

Raphe, And upon that I will lead the way ; onely I will have 
Miles go before me, because I have heard Henrie say that wisedome 
must go before majestic. Exeunt omnes. 



[Scene Eighth. The countrie-side ; Pre sing field. 1 
Enter Prince Edward with his poiniard in his handy Lacie, and Margret.^ 

Edward. Lacie, thou canst not shroud thy traitrous thoughts, 
Nor cover, as did Cassius, all his ^ wiles ; 
For Edward hath an eye that lookes as farre 
As Lyncoeus from the shores of Grecia. 

Did not I sit in Oxford by the frier, 5 

And see thee court the mayd of Fresingfield, 
Sealing thy flattering fancies with a kisse ? 
Did not prowd Bungay draw his portasse foorth, 
And joyning hand in hand had married you. 

If Frier Bacon had not strook him dumbe, lo 

And mounted him upon a spirits backe 
That we might chat at Oxford with the frier .? 
Traitor, what answerst ? is not all this true ? 

Lacy. Truth all, my lord ; and thus I make replie : 
At Harlstone faire, there courting for your grace, 15 

When as mine eye survaid her curious shape, 
And drewe the beautious glory of her looks 
To dive into the center of my heart. 
Love taught me that your honour did but jest, 
That princes were in fancie but as men ; 20 

1 Raphe. 

2 Cf. the scene in Kn. Kn. (H. Dods. VI. 575). 3 Dy. and W. change to «thy.' 

2 H 



466 The honourable historie of [sc. 

How that the lovely maid of Fresingfield 
Was fitter to be Lacies wedded wife 
Than concubine unto the Prince of Wales. 

Edward. Injurious Lacie, did I love thee more 
Than Alexander his Hephestion ? 25 

Did I unfould the passion [s] ^ of my love, 
And locke them in the closset of thy thoughts ? 
Wert thou to Edward second to himselfe, 
Sole freind, and partner of his secreat loves ? 

And could a glaunce of fading bewtie breake 3° 

Th' inchained fetters of such privat freinds ? 
Base coward, false, and too effeminate 
To be corivall with a prince in thoughts ! 
From Oxford have I posted since I dinde, 
To quite a traitor fore that Edward sleepe. 35 

Margret. Twas I, my lord, not Lacie stept awry : 
For oft he sued and courted for your selfe. 
And still woode for the courtier all in greene j 

But I, whome fancy made but over fond. 

Pleaded myselfe with looks as if I lovd ; 4° 

I fed myne eye with gazing on his face. 

And still bewitcht lovd Lacie with my looks ; 

My hart with sighes, myne eyes pleaded with tears, 

My face held pittie and content at once. 

And more I could not sipher out by signes, 45 

But that I lovd Lord Lacie with my heart. 

Then, worthy Edward, measure with thy minde 

If womens favours will not force men fall. 

If bewty, and if darts of persing love. 

Are not of force to bury thoughts of friendes. 5^ 

Edward. I tell thee, Peggie, I will have thy loves : 

Edward or none shall conquer Marg [a] ret. 

In frigats bottomd with rich Sethin 2 planks, 

Topt with the loftie firs of Libanon, 

1 2 I and G., * passion.' Q 3, Do., Dy., W., 'passions' : required by 'them.' So 
<* to show your passions," Kn. Kn. (H. Dods. VI, 574)- 

2 Shittim : cf. Ne-ver too Late (Grosart, VIII. 40), 



viii] Frier Bacon 467 

Stemd and incast with burnisht Ivorie, 55 

And overlaid with plates of Persian wealth, 

Like Thetis shall thou wanton on the waves, 

And draw the dolphins ^ to thy lovely eyes, 

To daunce lavoltas ^ in the purple ^ streames ; 

Sirens, with harpes and silver psalteries, 60 

Shall waight with musicke at thy frigots stem. 

And entertaine fair Margret with their laies.^ 

England and Englands wealth shall wait on thee ; 

Brittaine shall bend unto her princes love. 

And doe due homage to thine excellence, 65 

If thou wilt be but Edwards Marg[a]ret. 

Margret. Pardon, my lord : if Joves great roialtie 
Sent me such presents as to Danae ; 
If Phoebus [']ti[r]ed* in Latonas webs, 

Come ^ courting from the beautie of his lodge ; 70 

The dulcet tunes of frolicke Mercuric — 
Not 6 all the wealth heavens treasurie affoords, — 
Should make me leave Lord Lacie or his love. 

Edw. I have learnd at Oxford, then, this point of schooles, — 
Ablata'^ causa ^ tollitur effectus : 75 

Lacie ^ — the cause that Margret cannot love 
Nor fix her liking on the English prince, — 
Take him away, and then the effects will faile. 
Villaine, prepare thy selfe ; for I will bathe 
My poinard in the bosome of an earle. 80 

Lacie. Rather then ^ live and misse faire Margret's love ! — 
Prince Edward, stop not at the fatall doome. 
But stabb it home : end both my loves and life. 

Marg. Brave Prince of Wales, honoured for royall deeds, 
Twere sinne to staine fair Venus courts with blood ; 85 

1 Cf. Kn. Kn. "dolphin's eye" (H. Dods. VI. 574) ; "purple main," etc. (H. Dods. 
VI- 565, 570)- Ward notes resemblance of 11. 50-66, ' lavoltas,' * purple plaines,' 
'Thetis,' etc., to Menapon (Grosart, VI. 36). 2 Round dances; cf. Hen. V.^ iii. 5. 

3 Cf. Tamb. "To entertain . . . Zenocrate," etc. * So Dy., W., for < attired. ' g i, 

tied', 2 3, tyed [= incased, Grosart?]. ^ Sq Qtos., and prob. Greene. Eds., <came.' 

^ So Qtos., Do., and prob. Greene. Dy., W., *nor.' 

"^ 2 3. — (^ I, abbata. 8 j^ apposition with ' him,' 1. 78. ^ than. 



468 The honourable hist or ie of [sc. 

Loves conquests ends, my lord, in courtesie : 
Spare Lacie, gentle Edward ; let me die. 
For so both you and he doe cease your loves. 

Edward. Lacie shall die as traitor to his lord. 

Lacie. I have deserved it, Edward ; act it well. 90 

Margret. What hopes the prince to gaine by Lacies death ? 

Edward. To end the loves twixt him and Margaret. 

Marg. Why, thinks King Henries Sonne that Margret's love 
Hangs in the uncertaine ballance of proud time ? 
That death shall make a discord of our thoughts ? 95 

No, stab the earle, and fore the morning sun 
Shall vaunt him thrice over the loftie east, 
Margret will meet her Lacie in the heavens. 

Lacie. If ought betides to lovely Marg [a] ret 
That wrongs or wrings her honour from content, lOO 

Europes rich wealth nor Englands monarchic 
Should not allure Lacie to overlive : 
Then, Edward, short my life, and end her ^ loves. 

Margret. Rid me, and keepe a friend worth many loves. 

Lacie. Nay, Edward, keepe a love worth many friends. 105 

Margret. And if thy mind be such as fame hath blazde, 
Then, princely Edward, let us both abide 
The fatall resolution of thy rage : 
Banish thou fancie, and imbrace revenge, 

And in one toombe knit both our carkases, iio 

Whose hearts were linked in one perfect love. 

Edward \_aside.^ Edward, art thou that famous Prince of Wales, 
Who at Damasco beat the Sarasens, 
And broughtst home triumphe on thy launces point ? 
And shall thy plumes be puld by Venus downe ? 1 15 

Is it princely to dissever lovers leagues,^ 
To part such friends as glorie in their loves ? 
Leave, Ned, and make a vertue of this fault, 
And further Peg and Lacie in their loves : 

1 Dy. qy. * our ' ? but Greene liked the contrast of * my ' and * her.' Grosart. 

2 52 3, catching up 'loves' of 1. 117, substitutes it for 'leagues * of I. 116 j consequently 
omits 1. 1 1 7 altogether. 



135 



viii] Frier Bacon 469 

So in subduing fancies passion, I20 

Conquering thy selfe thou getst the richest spoile. — 

Lacie, rise up. Faire Peggie, heeres my hand : 

The Prince of Wales hath conquered all his thoughts, 

And all his loves he yeelds unto the earle. 

Lacie, enjoy the maid of Fresingfield ; 125 

Make her thy Lincolne countesse at the church, 

And Ned, as he is true Plantagenet, 

Will give her to thee franckly for thy wife.^ 

Lacie. Humbly I take her of my soveraigne. 
As if that Edward gave me Englands right, 130 

And richt me with the Albion diadem. 

Margret. And doth the English prince ^ mean true? 
Will he vouchsafe to cease his former loves. 
And yeeld the title of a countrie maid 
Unto Lord Lacie? 

Edward. I will, faire Peggie, as I am true lord. 

Marg. Then, lordly sir, whose conquest is as great. 
In conquering love, as Caesars victories, 
Margret, as milde and humble in her thoughts 

As was Aspatia^ unto Cirus selfe, 140 

Yeelds thanks, and, next Lord Lacie, doth inshrine 
Edward the second secret in her heart. 

Edw. Gramercie, Peggie : — now that vowes are past, 
And that your loves are not to * be revolt,^ 

Once, Lacie, friendes againe. Come, we will post 145 

To Oxford \ for this day the king is there. 
And brings for Edward Castile Ellinor. 
Peggie, I must go see and view my wife: 
I pray God 1 like her as I loved thee.^ 
Beside, Lord Lincolne, we shall heare dispute 150 

1 With 11. 25, 1 12-128, compare Campaspe, V. iv. 2 Appendix C, 2 b. 

3 Milto of Phocaea, whom Cyrus the Younger used to call Aspasia. . See Plutarch's 
Pericles, and Artaxerxes. Ward. * Q i omits. Q 3 supplies. 

5 Revolted = overturned. If similar literal transference of Latin uords were not common 
among Elizabethans, one might suggest ' revokt,' i.e. 'renounced,' citing xiv. 78, "a I'oiv 
that may not be re-vokt,^'' and Sir Clyom. and Sir Clam., "that mortal blow or stroke The 
which shall cause t'hy wretched corpse this life for to revoke.''' ^ Appendix Ay 4. 



470 The honourable historic of [sc 

Twixt Frier Bacon and learned Vandermast. 
Peggie, weele leave you for a weeke or two. 

Margret. As it please Lord Lacie : but loves foolish looks 
Thinke footsteps miles and minutes to be houres. 

Lacie. He hasten, Peggie, to make short returne. — 155 

But please your honour goe unto the lodge, 
We shall have butter, cheese, and venison ; 
And yesterday I brought for Marg[a]ret 
A lustie bottle of neat clarret wine : 
Thus can we feast and entertaine your grace. 160 

Edward. Tis cheere. Lord Lacie, for an emperour, 
If he respect the person and the place. 
Come, let us in ; for I will all this night 
Ride post untill I come to Bacons cell. Exeunt. 

[Scene Ninth. Oxford^ 
Enter Henrie, Emperour, Castile, Ellinor, Vandermast, Bungay. 

Emperour. Trust me, Plantagenet, these Oxford schooles 
Are richly seated neere the river side: 
The mountaines^ full of fat and fallow deere. 
The batling^ pastures laid ^ with kine and flocks, 
The towne gorgeous with high built colledges, 5 

And schollers seemely in their grave attire, 
Learned in searching principles of art. — 
What is thy judgement, Jaquis Vandermast ? 

Vandermast. That lordly are the buildings of the towne, 
Spatious the romes, and full of pleasant walkes ; lO 

But for the doctors, how that they be learned, 
It may be meanly, for ought I can heere. 

Bungay. I tell thee, Germane, Haspurge holds none such. 
None red so deepe as Oxenford containes : 
There are within our accademicke state 15 

1 Cumnor, Hinksey, Cuddesdon, Shotover, etc., can hardly be called mountains. The 
Emperour recalls the progress over the Chilterns, or Greene romances. 

2 Nutritious ; cf. battles and batten. 

* Qtos., Do. Possibly means 'covered.' But probably misprint for Made' : — Dy., W. 



ix] . Frier Bacon 



471 



Men that may lecture it in Germanic 

To all the doctors of your Belgicke schools. 

Henr'ie. Stand to him, Bungay, charme this Vandermast, 
And I will use thee as a royall king. 

Vandermast. Wherein darest thou dispute with me ? 20 

Bungay. In what a doctor and a friar can. 

Vandermast. Before rich Europes worthies put thou forth 
The doubtfuU question unto Vandermast. 

Bungay. Let it be this, — Whether the spirites of piromancie or 
geomancie be most predominant in magick ? 25 

Vander. I say, of piromancie. 

Bungay. And I, of geomancie. 

Vander. The cabbalists that wright of magick spels, 
As Hermes,^ Melchie,^ and Pithagoras, 

Affirme that, mongst the quadruplicitie 30 

Of elementall essence, terra is but thought 
To be a punctum squared to ^ the rest ; 
And that the compasse of ascending eliments 
Exceed in bignesse as they doe in height; 

Judging the concave circle of the sonne 35 

To hold the rest in his circomference. 
If, then, as Hermes saies, the fire be greatst, 
Purest, and onely giveth shape to spirites 
Then must these demones that haunt that place 
Be every way superiour to the rest. 40 

Bungay. I reason not of elementall shapes, 
Nor tell I of the concave lattitudes, 
Noting their essence nor their qualitie. 
But of the spirites that piromancie calles. 

And of the vigour of the geomanticke fiends. 45 

I tell thee. Germane, magicke haunts the grounds,* 
And those strange necromantick spels 
That worke such shewes and wondering in the world 
Are acted by those geomanticke spirites 
That Hermes calleth terrce filii. 50 

1 Trismegistus. ^ Porphyry. ^ an atom compared with. * Qtos. and 

Do — Dy. and W., * ground.' The * s ' may have been attracted from ' fiends ' and ' spels.' 



472 The honourable historie of [sc 

The fierie spirits are but transparant shades, 

That lightly passe as heralts to beare newes ; 

But earthly fiends, closd in the lowest deepe. 

Dissever mountaines, if they be but chargd. 

Being more grose and massie in their power. 55 

Vander. Rather these earthly geomantike spirits 
Are dull and like the place where they remaine; 
For when proud Lucipher fell from the heavens, 
The spirites and angels that did sin with him, 

Retaind their locall essence as their faults, 60 

All subject under Lunas continent : 
They which offended lesse hang^ in the fire. 
And second faults did rest within the aire; 
But Lucifer and his proud hearted fiends 

Were throwne into the center of the earth, 65 

Having lesse understanding than the rest. 
As having greater sinne and lesser grace. 
Therfore such grosse and earthly spirits doe serve 
For juglers, witches, and vild^ sorcerers; 

Whereas the piromantike genii ^ 70 

Are mightie, swift, and of farre reaching power. 
But graunt that geomancie hath most force ; 
Bungay, to please these mightie potentates, 
Proove by some instance what thy art can doe. 

Bungay. I will. 75 

Emper. Now, English Harry, here begins the game; 
We shall see sport betweene these learned men. 

Vandermast, What wilt thou doe ? 

Bung. Shew thee the tree, leavd with refined gold, 
Wheron the fearfull dragon held his seate, 80 

That watcht the garden cald Hesperides^ 
Subdued and wonne by conquering Hercules. 

Vandermast. Well done ! ^ 

1 Qtos. and Do. — Dy. and W., * hung.' 

2 Dy. and W., * vile.' But ' Vild ' is common : see F ^^ 2 A. W. A., Sp. Gypsy, etc. 

3 Q i^ gemii. ^ Most of our old writers use Hesp. as the name of a place. 
5 Ironically. Eds. place •a/>er the stage direction 5 but the Qtos. may stand. 



ix] Frier Bacon 



473 



Here Bungay conjures y and the Tree appeares with the Dragon shooting fire. 

Henrie. What say you, royall lordings,^ to my frier ? 
Hath he not done a point of cunning skill ? 85 

Vander. Ech scholler in the nicromantike spels 
Can doe as much as Bungay hath performd : 
But as Alcmenas basterd ras'd ^ this tree, 
So will I raise him up as when he lived. 

And cause him pull the dragon from his seate, 90 

And teare the branches peecemeale from the roote. — 
Hercules ! Prodi^ prodi.^ Hercules ! 

Hercules appeares in his Lions skin, 

Hercules, ^uis me vult ? 

Vandermast. Joves bastard sonne, thou Libian Hercules, 
Pull off the sprigs from off* the Hesperian tree, 95 

As once thou didst to win the golden fruit. 

Hercules. Fiat. 

Heere he begins to breake the branches. 

Vander. Now, Bungay, if thou canst by magicke charme 
The fiend, appearing like great Hercules, 

From pulling downe the branches of the tree, lOO 

Then art thou worthy ^ to be counted learned. 

Bungay. I cannot. 

Vander. Cease, Hercules, untill I give thee charge. — 
Mightie commander of this English He, 

Henrie, come from the stout Plantagenets, 105 

Bungay is learned enough to be a frier; 
But to compare with Jaquis Vandermast, 
Oxford and Cambridge must go seeke their celles 
To find a man to match him in his art. 

I have given non-plus to the Paduans, IIO 

To them of Sien,^ Florence, and Bologna,'' 
Reimes,^ Louain, and faire Rotherdam, 

* Q 3, 'lordlings. ' ^ ^azed. ^SoQ3. Q^i,prodie. * G. would omit. ^ Q^iyivorrhy. 

6 Sienna. For metre, Appendix D, i ; for that of 1. ii6, B, i -^ of 11. 120, 148, 162, 

C, 2 c ', of 1. 129, B, 2. ' So Q 3. Q I, Belogna ^ Text and metre, Appendix E 



474 ^^^ honourable historie of [sc 

Franckford, Lutrech,^ and Orleance : 

And now must Henrie, if he do me right, 

Crowne me with laurell, as they all have done. 1 15 

E?iter Bacon. 

Bacon. All haile to this roiall companie,^ 
That sit to heare and see this strange dispute ! — 
Bungay, how standst thou as a man amazd ? 
What, hath the Germane acted more than thou ? 

Vandermast. What art thou that questions thus ? ^ 120 

Bacon. Men call me Bacon. 

Vander. Lordly thou lookest, as if that thou wert learnd ; 
Thy countenance as if science held her seate 
Betweene the circled arches of thy browes. 

Henrie. Now, Monarcks, hath the Germain found his match. 

Emperour. Bestirre thee, Jaquis, take not now the foile,^ 126 
Least thou doest loose what foretime thou didst gaine. 

Vandermast. Bacon, wilt thou dispute ? 

Bacon. Noe,2 unlesse he were more learnd than Vandermast : 
For yet, tell me, what hast thou done? 130 

Vandermast. Raisd Hercules to ruinate that tree 
That Bongav mounted by his magicke spels. 

Bacon. Set Hercules to worke. 

Vander. Now, Hercules, I charge thee to thy taske ; 
Pull off the golden branches from the roote. 135 

Hercules. I dare not. Seest thou not great Bacon heere. 
Whose frowne doth act more than thy magicke can ? 

Vandermast. By all the thrones, and dominations, 
Vertues, powers, and mightie hierarchies,* 
I charge thee to obey to Vandermast. 140 

Hercules. Bacon, that bridles headstrong Belcephon, 
And rules Asmenoth, guider of the north, 
Bindes me from yeelding unto Vandermast. 

1 So Qtos. Dy. and G., * Utrecht [Paris] and.' Fleay and Ward, * Lutetia and O ' ; 
the compositor having probably been shunted by the ut from Ms. 'Lutetia' into *Utrech.' 
Dekker spells the latter ' Utrich ' ( 7 Z). 5. 1606). Lutetia (or Paris) has been already men- 
tioned in iv. 50 ; whereas Utrecht was not yet a university town. 

2 Seen. 6, p. 473. ^ Mar. Witte and Sci. (1570), " Not every ybrVe doth make a falle." 
* Q I, ber archies. 



ix] Frier Bacon 475 

Hen. How now, Vandermast ! have you met with your match ? 

Vandermast. Never before wast knowne to Vandermast 145 

That men held devils in such obedient awe. 
Bacon doth more than art, or els I faile. 

Emperour. Why, Vandermast, art thou overcome ? — 
Bacon, dispute with him, and trie his skill. 

Bacon. I come 1 not, Monarckes, for to hold dispute 1 50 

With such a novice as is Vandermast ; 
I came^ to have your royalties to dine 
With Frier Bacon heere in Brazennose ; 
And, for this Germane troubles but the place, 

And holds this audience with a long suspence, 155 

He send him to his accademie hence. — 
Thou, Hercules, whom Vandermast did raise. 
Transport the Germane unto Haspurge straight. 
That he may learne by travaile, gainst the spring,^ 
More secret doomes and aphorisms of art. 160 

Vanish the tree, and thou away with him ! 

Exit the Spirit with Vandermast and the Tree. 

Emperour. Why, Bacon, whether doest thou send him ? 

Bacon. To Haspurge : there your highnesse at returne 
Shall finde the Germane in his studie safe. 

Henrie. Bacon, thou hast honoured England with thy skill, 165 
And made faire Oxford famous by thine art : 
I will be English Henrie to thy selfe ; — 
But tell me, shall we dine with thee to-day ? 

Bacon. With me, my lord ; and while I fit my cheere, 
See where Prince Edward comes to welcome you, 170 

Gratious as'* the morning starre of heaven. \_Exit. 

Enter Edward, Lacie, Warren, Ermsbie. 

Emperour. Is this Prince Edward, Henries royall sonne ? 
How martiall is the figure of his face ! 
Yet lovely and beset with amorets.^ 

1 So Qtos. — Dy. and W. alter * came.' 3 So eds. — Qtos. , springs. 

2 So Q 3, and eds., and (I think) Q i. — G. ' come.' * Appendix C, r a 

^ Love-kindling looks; cf, xii. 8. Dyce. So also Never too Late^ **wilieamorettes of a curtizan," 



476 The honourable historie of [sc 

Henrie, Ned, where hast thou been ? 175 

Edward. At Framingham, my lord, to trie your buckes 
If they could scape the ^ teisers or the toile. 
But hearing of these lordly potentates 
Landed, and prograst up to Oxford towne, 

I posted to give entertaine to them: 1 80 

Chiefe to the Almaine monarke ; next to him, 
And joynt with him, Castile and Saxonie 
Are welcome as they may be to the English court. 
Thus for the men : but see, Venus appeares. 

Or one that overmatcheth ^ Venus in her shape! 185 

Sweete Ellinor, beauties highswelling pride. 
Rich natures glorie and her wealth at once, 
Faire of all faires, welcome to Albion ; 
Welcome to me, and welcome to thine owne. 
If that thou dainst the welcome from my selfe. 190 

Ellinor. Martiall Plantagenet, Henries high minded sonne. 
The marke that Ellinor did count her aime, 
I likte thee fore I saw thee : now I love, 
And so as in so short a time I may ; 

Yet so as time shall never breake that so, 195 

And therefore so accept of Ellinor. 

Castile. Feare not, my lord, this couple will agree, 

If love may creepe into their wanton eyes: 

And therefore, Edward, I accept thee heere. 

Without suspence, as my adopted sonne. 200 

Henrie. Let me that joy in these consorting greets. 
And glorie in these honors done to Ned, 
Yeeld thankes for all these favours to my sonne. 
And rest a true Plantagenet to all. 

Enter Miles with a cloth and trenchers and salt. 

Miles. Salvete^ omnes reges^ that govern your greges^ 205 

In Saxonie and Spaine, in England and in Almaine ! 
For all this frolicke rable must I cover the^ table 
With trenchers,'salt, and cloth; and then looke for your broth. 

1 Q I, they. 2 g. omits « over.' See Appendix D, -^ b. 3 Li_ 205-209, as prose 

in Qtos. See note on vii. 40 et seq. * Q i> ^'^«<?- 



ix] Frier B 



aeon 



477 



Emperour. What pleasant fellow is this ? 

Henrie. Tis, my lord, Doctor Bacons poore scholler. 210 

Miles ]^aside^ . My maister hath made me sewer ^ of these great 
lords ; and, God knowes, I am as serviceable at a table as a sow is 
under an apple-tree: tis no matter; their cheere shall not be great, and 
therefore what skils where the salt stand, before or behinde ? {ExitJ^ 

Castile. These schollers knowes more skill in actiomes, 215 

How to use quips and sleights of sophistrie. 
Than for to cover courtly for a king. 

^Re'^enter Miles with a message of pottage and broth ; andy after him. 

Bacon. 

Miles. Spill, sir ? why, doe you thinke I never carried twopeny 
chop^ before in my life ? 

By your leave, nohile decus^ for here comes Doctor Bacons pecus^ 
Being in his full age to carrie a messe of pottage. 221 

Bacon. Lordings, admire not if your cheere be this, 
For we must keepe our accademicke fare ; 
No riot where Philosophic doth raine : 

And therefore, Henrie, place these potentates, 225 

And bid them fall unto their frugall cates. 

Emp. Presumptuous Frier ! what, scoffst thou at a king ? 
What, doest thou taunt us with thy pesants fare. 

And give us cates fit* for countrey swaines ? 

Henrie, proceeds this jest of thy consent, 230 

To twit us with such ^ a pittance of such price ? 
Tell me, and Fredericke will not greeve the[e] long. 

Henrie. By Henries honour, and the royall faith 
The English monarcke beareth to his friend, 

I knew not of the frier's feeble fare, 235 

Nor am I pleasd he entertaines you thus. 

1 One who sets the table; Fr. asseoir. So Fletcher, R. a W. III. i. [Century.) 

2 Chopped meat in broth ? {N. E. D.). ^ LI. 220-221, as prose in Qtos. 
* Wagner supplies 'but' before ' for ' 5 the emperor supplied a gulp of rage before 'fit.' 

Appendix C, i c. 

5 Q 3. — Do., Dy. omit ' such ' ; G. and W. omit ' a.' This smoothing out of the ana- 
pest has no historical warrant. 



478 The honourable historie of [sc. 

Bacon. Content thee, Fredericke, for I shewd the ^ cates, 
To let thee see how schollers use to feede ; 

How little meate refines our English wits. 

Miles, take away, and let it be thy dinner. 240 

Miles. Marry, sir, I wil. This day shall be a festival day with me ;2 
For I shall exceed in the highest degree. \Exit Miles.] 

Bacon. I tell thee, monarch, all the Germane peeres 
Could not afFoord thy entertainment such. 

So roiall and so full of maiestie, 245 

As Bacon will present to Fredericke ; 
The basest waiter that attends thy cups 
Shall be in honours greater than thy selfe ; 
And for thy cates, rich Alexandria drugges^ 

Fecht by carveils^ from Aegypts richest straights, 250 

Found in the wealthy strond of Affrica, 
Shall royallize the table of my king; 
Wines richer than the Gyptian courtisan 
Quaft to Augustus kingly countermatch, 

Shalbe carrowst in English Henries feasts; 255 

Candie shall yeeld the richest of her canes; 
Persia, downe her volga^ by canows. 
Send down the secrets of her spicerie ; 
The Africke dates, mirabolanes^ of Spaine, 

Conserves and suckets ^ from Tiberias, 260 

Cates from Judea, choiser than the lampe^ 

1 So Qtos. and G. Do., * thee ' ; Dy. and W., ' these' unnecessarily. 

2 Dy. and W., "This . . . me," as a verse. 

3 Spices. 

* A small, light, and fast ship; caravel (A^. E. D.). 

* "This," observes my friend, Mr. W. N. Lettsom, ** is much as if France were to send 
claret and burgundy down her Thames." Dyce. Quoted as with approval by G. and W. 
But may not Greene indulge in a figure of speech ? The Volga was the typical great river of the 
Elizabethans, their Amazon or Mississippi ; and is here used for the Euphrates by antonomasia. 
Q I does not capitalize this -volga^ and the emphasis is on ber. See Appendix C, I a. 

6 So in Greene's Not. Disco'v. Coosenage. Qtos. and Do., mirabiles. 
"^ Sugar plums. , 

8 Dyce regards the passage as mutilated. Mitford's ' balm ' does not fit the sense. For 
Mamprey ' (from W. Bell and Fleay), see Ward. I think that explanation is good; for 
Greene is not averse to coining words, and if he is translating murana by ' lamp,' the figure in 
the next line suggests that a paronomasia may have won favor with him by reason of a false 
derivation from \a/XTrp6s {sc. the Lampris, a brilliant deep-sea fish). 



x] Frier Bacon 479 

That fiered Rome with sparkes of gluttonie, 

Shall bewtifie the board for ^ Fredericke : 

And therfore grudge not at a frier's feast. [Exeunt.'] 



[Scene Tenth. Near the Keepers lodge in Fresingfield^ 

Enter two gentlemen y Lambert and Serlsby ^ with the Keeper. 

Lambert. Come, frolicke keeper of our lieges game, 
Whose table spred hath ever venison 
And jacks ^ of wines to welcome passengers, 
Know I am in love with jolly Marg[a]ret, 

That over-shines our damsels as the moone 5 

Darkneth the brightest sparkles of the night. 
In Laxfield ^ heere my land and living lies : 
He make thy daughter joynter ^ of it all, 
So thou consent to give her to my wife ; 
And I can spend five hundreth markes a yeare. 10 

Serlhie. I am the landslord,^ Keeper, of thy holds. 
By coppie all thy living lies in me; 
Laxfield did never see me raise my due : 
I will infeofe faire Marg [a] ret in all. 
So she will take her to a lustie squire. 15 

Keeper. Now, courteous gent [i] Is, if the keepers girle 
Hath pleasd the liking fancie of you both, 
And with her beutie hath subdued your thoughts, 
Tis doubtfuU to decide the question. 

It joyes me that such men of great esteeme 20 

Should lay their liking on this base estate. 
And that her state should grow so fortunate 
To be a wife to meaner men than you : 
But sith such squires will stoop to keepers feej 
I will, to avoid displeasure of you both, 25 

Call Margret forth, and she shall make her choise. Exit. 

1 W. alters to * of.' * Six miles N. E. of Framlingham. '^ estate. 

2 2 I, Serlby. ^ jointure or jointress. Wagner. 

3 pitchers of wine, ' blaclce pots. ' ^23 ^^^ ^^^- S ' > landord. 



480 The honourable historic of [sc. 

Lambert. Content,^ — Keeper ; send her unto us. 
Why, Serlsby, is thy wife so lately dead, 
Are all thy loves so lightly passed over. 
As thou canst wed before the yeare be 2 out ? 30 

Serlsby. I live not, Lambert, to content the dead, 
Nor was I wedded but for life to her : 
The grave ^ ends and begins a maried state. 

Enter Margret. 

Lambert. Peggie, the lovelie flower of all townes, 
Suftblks fair Hellen, and rich Englands star, 35 

Whose beautie, tempered with her huswiferie, 
Males England talke of merry Frisingfield ! 

Serlsby. I cannot tricke it up with poesies, 
Nor paint my passions with comparisons. 

Nor tell a tale^ of Phebus and his loves : 40 

But this beleve me, — Laxfield here is mine. 
Of auncient rent seven hundred pounds a yeare. 
And if thou canst but love a countrie squire, 
I will infeoffe thee, Marg[a]ret, in all: 
I cannot flatter; trie me, if thou please. 45 

Mar. Brave neighbouring squires, the stay of Suffolks clime, 
A keepers daughter is too base in gree^ 
To match with men accoumpted of such worth : 
But might I not displease, I would reply. 

Lambert. Say, Peggy ; nought shall make us discontent. 50 

Mar. Then, gentils, note that love hath little stay, 
Nor can the flames that Venus sets on fire 
Be kindled but by fancies motion : 
Then pardon, gentils, if a maids reply 

Be doubtful, while I have debated with my selfe 55 

Who, or of whome, love shall constraine me like. 

1 G. ' Content thee^'' by analogy with ix. 237, x. 73. But the meaning is "We are 
satisfied." Malone on the margin of his 1630 quarto (Bodl. ) suggests * good ' after ' Content.' 
See Appendix C, i i> for retention of Q i, as above. 

'^ W. reads 'is.' ^ Q i, gra'ves. * Q l> ^'^^l- 

& So Do., Dy., W., and G. — Q I, daughter. 






x] Frier Bacon 481 

Serlsby. Let it be me ; and trust me, Marg [a] ret, 
The meads invironed with the silver stre^mes, 
Whose batling pastures fatneth ^ all my flockes, 
Yeelding forth fleeces stapled ^ with such woole 6o 

As Lempster cannot yeelde more finer stuffe, 
And fortie kine with faire and burnisht^ heads, 
With strouting^ duggs, that paggle^ to the ground, 
Shall serve thy da[i]ry, if thou wed with me. 

Lambert. Let passe the countrie wealth, as flocks and kine, 65 
And lands that wave with Ceres golden sheves, 
Filling my barnes with plentie of the fieldes ; 
But, Peggie^ if thou wed thy selfe to me. 
Thou shalt have garments of imbrodred silke, 

Lawnes, and rich networks for thy head attyre : 70 

Costlie shalbe thy fa[i]re abiliments. 
If thou wilt be but Lamberts loving wife. 

Margret. Content you, gentles, you have proferd faire. 
And more than fits a countrie maids degree : 

But give me leave to counsaile me a time, 75 

For fancie bloomes not at the first assault ; 
Give me . . . ^ but ten days' respite, and I will replye. 
Which or to whom my selfe afi^ectionats. 

Serlsby. Lambert, I tell thee, thourt importunate ; 
Such beautie fits not such a base esquire : 80 

It is for Serlsby to have Marg [a] ret. 

Lainb. Thinkst thou with wealth to over reach me \ 
Serlsby, I scorne to brooke thy country braves : 
I dare thee, coward, to maintaine this wrong. 
At dint of rapier, single in the field. 85 

Serlsby. He aunswere, Lambert, what I have avoucht. — 
Margret, farewel ; another time shall serve. Exit Serlsby. 

Lambert. He follow. — Peggie, farewell to thy selfe; 
Listen how well He answer for thy love. Exit Lambert. 

1 Q I retained. Do., Dy. object to this common form of the plural. 

2 Consisting of wool fit for the market, such as Leominster (in Herefordshire) cannot excel. 
? So Qtos. But Do., ' furnish'd.' ■* protuberant. ^ hang swaying ,• 

perhaps by a telescoping of ' paddle ' and ' waggle. ' Ward suggests fusion of ' paddle ' and ' bag.' 
6 She pauses to think. Dy. would omit ' Give me.' But see Appendix Z), 3 a. 
2 I 



482 The honourable historie of [sc. 

Margeret. How fortune tempers lucky happes with frowns, 90 
And wrongs ^ me with the sweets of my delight ! 
Love is my blisse, and love is now my bale. 
Shall I be Hellen in my forward 2 fates, 
As I am Hellen in my matchles hue, 

And set rich SufFolke with my face afire ? 95 

If lovely Lacie were but with his Peggy ? 
The cloudie darckenesse of his bitter frowne 
Would check the pride of those aspiring squires. 
Before the terme of ten dayes be expired. 

When as they looke for aunswere of their loves, 100 

My lord will come to merry Frisingfield, 
And end their fancies and their follies both. — 
Til when, Peggie, be blith and of good cheere. 

Enter a Post with a letter and a bag of gold. 

Post. Fair lovely damsell, which way leads this path? 
How might I post me unto Frisingfield ? 105 

Which footpath leadeth to the keepers lodge? 

Margeret. Your way is ready, and this path is right: 
My selfe doe dwell hereby in Frisingfield ; 
And if the keeper be the man you seeke, 
I am his daughter : may I know the cause ? 

Post. Lovely, and once beloved of my lord, — 
No mervaile if his eye was lodgd so low. 
When brighter bewtie Is not in the heavens : 
The Lincolne earle hath sent you letters here. 

And, with them, just an hundred pounds in gold. II 5 

Sweete, bonny wench, read them, and make reply. 

Margret. The scrowls that Jove sent Danae, 
Wrapt in rich closures of fine burnisht gold. 
Were not more welcome than these lines to me. 
Tell me, whilst that I doe unrip the scales, 120 

Lives Lacie well ? how fares my lovely lord ? 

Post. Well, if that wealth may make men to live well. 

1 Dy. queries 'wrings.' No. 

2 So Qtos. ; but eds. read * froward,' which Qtos. have in 1. 142 ; but ' forward ' was com- 
mon in this sense. Cf. Selimus^ 11. 184, 271, 1292, 1548. 



I 



x] Frier Bacon 483 

The letter and Margret reads it. 

The bloomes of the Almond tree grow in a nighty and vanish in a morne ; 

the fiies h^emerey^ {^faire Peggie) y take life with the Suny and die with the 

dew ; fancie that slippeth in with a gasey goeth out with a winke ; and too 

timely loves have ever the shortest length. I write this as thy grefe, and my 

follyy who at Frisingfield lovd that which time hath taught me to be but 

meane dainties: eyes are dissemblers y and fancie is but queasie ; therefore 

knowy Margrety I have chosen a Spanish Ladie to be my wife, cheefe waight- 

ing woman to the Princesse Ellinour ; a Lady fairey and no lesse faire than 

thy selfey honorable and wealthy. In that I forsake theey I leave thee to 

thine own liking ; and for thy dowrie I have sent thee an hundred pounds ; 

and ever assure thee of my favour y which shall availe thee and thine much. 

Farewell. ,r , . , . 

Not thtney nor bis owney 

Edward Lacie. 

Fond Atae, doomer of bad boading fates, 137 

That wrappes^ proud Fortune in thy snaky locks, 

Didst thou inchaunt my byrth-day with such stars 

As Hghtned mischeefe from their infancie ? 140 

If heavens had vowd, if stars had made decree, 

To shew on me their froward influence. 

If Lacie had but lovd, heavens, hell, and all. 

Could not have wrongd the patience of my minde. 

Post. It grieves me, damsell ; but the earle is forst 145 

To love the lady by the kings command. 

Margret. The wealth combinde within the English shelves,^ 
Europes commaunder, nor the English king. 
Should not have movde the love of Peggie from her lord.* 

Post. What answere shall I returne to my lord? 1 50 

Margret. First, for thou cam'st from Lacie whom I lovd, — 
Ah, give me leave to sigh at every ^ thought ! — 

1 For ' haemerae ' = ephemerae. 

2 A common form. But Dy., silently, * wrapp'st ' ; and so W. 
8 Cliffs. So, also, Selimus, 1710. 

* Dy., *M1. 147-148, corrupted." Not in the least. In 1. 149 Dy., qy. * from bim^ ; 
but see Appendix D, 3 b. 

^ Dy. , W., ' very.' But M. sighs at each thought as it is enumerated ; hence the lacunae 
in 1. 156. Appendix C, 2 b. 



484 The honourable historie of . [sc. 

Take thou, my freind, the hundred pound he sent j 

For Margrets resolution craves no dower : 

The world shalbe to her as vanitie ; 155 

Wealth, trash ; love, hate ; pleasure, dispaire : 

For I will straight to stately Fremingham, 

And in the abby there be shorne a nun. 

And veld my loves and libertie to God. 

Fellow, I give thee this, not for the newes, 160 

For those be hatefull unto Marg[a]ret, 

But for thart Lacies man, once Margrets love. 

Post. What I have heard, what passions I have seene. 
He make report of them unto the Earle. \_Exit Post.] 

Margret. Say that she joyes his fancies be at rest, 165 

And praies that his misfortune ^ may be hers. Exit. 

[Scene Eleventh. Frier Bacons cell.'] 

Enter Frier Bacon drawing the courtaines with a white stick, a booke in his 
handy and a lampe lighted by him; and the Brasen Head, and Miles 
with weapons by him. 

Bacon. Miles, where are you ? 

Miles. Here, sir. 

Bacon. How chaunce you tarry so long ? 

Miles. Thinke you that the watching of the Brazen Head craves 
no furniture? I warrant you, sir, I have so armed my selfe^ that 
if all your devills come, I will not feare them an inch. 6 

Bacon. Miles, thou knowst that I have dived into hell, 
And sought the darkest pallaces of fiendes ; 
That with my magic spels great Belcephon 

Hath left his lodge and kneeled at my cell; 10 

The rafters of the earth rent from the poles. 
And three-formd Luna hid her silver looks, 
Trembling upon her concave contenent,^ 
When Bacon red upon his magick booke. 
With seven years tossing nigromanticke charmes, 15 

^ Dy. ' misfortunes.' No. ^ G., " with food " ? ^ hollow sphere. — Ward 



XI] Frier Bacon 485 

Poring upon darke Hecats principles, 
I have framd out a monstrous head of brasse. 
That, by the inchaunting forces of the devil, 
Shall tell out strange and uncoth Aphorismes, 

And girt faire England with a wall of brasse. 20 

Bungay and I have watcht these threescore dayes, 
And now our vitall spirites crave some rest : 
If Argos 1 livd, and had his hundred eyes, 
They could not overwatch Phobeters^ night. 

Now, Miles, in thee rests Frier Bacons weale; 25 

The honour and renowne of all his life 
Hangs in the watching of this Brazen-Head ; 
Therefore I charge thee by the immortall God, 
That holds the soules of men within his fist,^ 

This night thou watch ; for ere the morning star 30 

Sends out his glorious glister on the north. 
The head will speake : then. Miles, upon thy life, 
Wake me ; for then by magick art He worke 
To end my seven yeares taske with excellence. 

If that a winke^ but shut thy watchfull eye, 35. 

Then farewell Bacons glory and his fame ! 
Draw closse the courtaines. Miles : now, for thy life. 
Be watchfull, and — Here he falleth asleepe. 

Miles, So \ I thought you would talke your selfe a sleepe anon ; 
and 'tis no mervaile, for Bungay on the dayes, and he on the nights, 
have watcht just these ten and fifty dayes : now this is the night, 
and tis my taske, and no more. Now, Jesus bles.se me, what a 
goodly head it is ! and a nose ! you talke of nos autem glorificare ;^ 
but heres a nose that I warrant may be cald nos autem popelare^ 
for the people of the parish. Well, I am furnished with weapons : 
now, sir, I will set me downe by a post, and make it as good as a 

1 Argus. 

2 Phobetor, son of Morpheus : Ov. Met. xi. 640. The (pd^Tjrpov (terror) of the Septuagint. 

3 Fist '*klingt unpassend " to Wagner, but not to Greene (0. F, 1. 25), nor Shak. 
(3 //. VI. II. i. 154), nor Stanyhurst (^Aeneis, 1. 28). Wagner's ' fee' is unnecessary. 

* Q I, aivinke. 

^ From the Nos autem gloriari (Rom. Liturgy). Ward. — Adam {Lkgl. 1. 224) makes 
the same joke. 6 Milesian for populare. — Q 3 : popelares. 



486 The honourable historie of [sc. 

watch-man to wake me, if I chaunce to slumber. I thought, 
Goodman Head, I would call you out of your memento^ . . . ^ 
Passion a God, I have almost broke my pate ! ^ Up, Miles, to 
your taske ; take your browne bilH in your hand; heeres some of 
your maister's hobgoblins abroad. 51 

With this a great noise. The Head speakes. 

Head. Time is. 

Miles. Time is ! Why, Master Brazenhead, you have such a 
capitall nose, and answer you with sillables, ' Time is ' ? Is this 
my all^ maister's cunning, to spend seven years studie about 'Time 
is ' ? Well, sir, it may be we shall have some better orations of it 
anon : well. He watch you as narrowly as ever you were watcht, 
and He play with you as the nightingale with the slowworme;^ He 
set a pricke against my brest. Now rest there. Miles. . . . 
Lord have mercy upon me, I have almost killd my selfe.'^ Up, 
Miles; list how they rumble. 61 

Head. Time was. 

Miles. Well, Frier Bacon, you spent ^ your seven yeares studie 
well, that can make your Head speake but two wordes at once, 
' Time was.' Yea, marie, time was when my maister was a wise 
man, but that was before he began to make the Brasen-head. You 
shall lie while your arce ake, and your Head speake no better. 
Well, I will watch, and walke up and downe, and be a perepatetian 
and a philosopher of Aristotles stampe. What, a freshe noise ? 
Take thy pistols in hand. Miles. 70 

Heere the Head speakes ; and a lightning flasheth forth y and a hand appear es 
that breaketh down the Head with a hammer. 

Head. Time is past.9 

Miles. Maister, maister, up ! hels broken loose ; your Head 
speakes; and theres such a thunder and lightning, that I warrant 

1 &.; wor/, as on a Death's head. Ward. 

2 \_Nod%^ knocks his head against the post."^ Grosart. 

3 In 11. 49, 60, 69 : \_a great noise'\. Dy., and W. But that would have awakened 
Bacon earlier. Beside 1. 49, Q. i, are letters ivn and your — residue of stage direction. 

* pike. 6 Do., Dy * all my ' ; W. omits. But Q i is intelligible. 

6 the snake that strikes. Ward. ' Against his pike. ^ Q 3 ' ha-ve spent.' 

^ Dy. and W. place above the stage direction. 



xi] Frier Bacon 487 

all Oxford is up in armes. Out of your bed, and take a browne 
bill in your hand ; the latter day is come. 75 

Bacon. Miles, I come.^ Oh, passing warily watcht ! 
Bacon will make thee next himselfe in love. 
When spake the Head ? 

Miles, When spake the Head ! did not you say that hee should 
tell strange principles of philosophie ? Why, sir, it speaks but two 
wordes at a time. 81 

Bacon. Why, villaine, hath it spoken oft ? 

Miles. Oft ! I, marie, hath it, thrice ; but in all those three 
times it hath uttered but seven wordes. 

Bacon. As how ? 85 

Miles. Marrie, sir, the first time he said ' Time is,' as if Fabius 
Cumentator^ should have pronounst a sentence ; [the second time^] 
he said, ' Time was ' ; and the third time, with thunder and light- 
ning, as in great chollcr, he said, 'Time is past.' 

Bacon. 'Tis past indeed. A[h], villaine, time is past : 90 

My life, my fame, my glorie, all * are past ! - — 
Bacon, the turrets of thy hope are ruind downe, 
Thy seven yeares studie lieth in the dust ; 
Thy Brazen-head lies broken through a slave, 

That watcht, and would not when the Head did will. — 95 

What said the Head first ? 

Miles. Even, sir, ' Time is.' 

Bacon. Villain, if thou had'st cald to Bacon then. 
If thou hadst watcht, and wakte the sleepie frier. 
The Brazen-head had uttered aphorismes, 100 

And England had been circled round with brasse : 
But proud Astmeroth,^ ruler of the north. 
And Demegorgon,^ maister of the fates. 
Grudge that a mortall man should worke so much. 

1 Dy. and W. insert [i??\se5 and comes forivard']. G. rightly disapproves. Bacon is half 
asleep and does not behold the mischief until after * love.' 

2 Qtos, W.,and G. — Do., Dy., * Commentator.' But, as G. explains, Miles is strug- 
gling with a reminiscence of ' Cunctator. ' 

3 Inserted by Do. , and other eds. But why systematize Miles } 

* W., * are all.' No. ^ Asmenoth. 

6 Demogorgon : 0. F. 1287. Mysterious nether deity mentioned as early as the fifth 
century} and by Boccaccio, Ariosto, Spenser. (See N.E.D.^ 



488 



The honourable historie of 



[sc. 



Hell trembled at my deepe commanding spels, 105 

Fiendes frownd to see a man their overmatch; 

Bacon might host more than a man might boast ; 

But now the braves of Bacon hath an end, 

Europes conceit of Bacon hath an end, 

His seven yeares practise sorteth to ill end . 1 10 

And, villaine, sith my glorie hath an end, 

I will appoint thee fataP to some end. 

Villaine, avoid ! get thee from Bacons sight ! 

Vagrant, go rome and range about the world, 

And perish as a vagabond on earth ! 115 

Miles. Why, then, sir, you forbid me your service ? 

Bacon. My service, villaine, with a fatall curse, 
That direfull plagues and mischiefe fall on thee. 118 

Miles. Tis no matter, I am against you with the old proverb, — 
The more the fox is curst,^ the better he fares. God be with you, 
sir : He take but a booke in my hand, a wide sleeved gowne on my 
backe, and a crowned cap ^ on my head, and see if I can want pro- 
motion. 

Bacon. Some fiend or ghost haunt on thy wearie steps, 
Untill they doe transport thee quicke to hell : 125 

For Bacon shall have never merrie day. 
To loose the fame and honour of his Head. Exit. 



[Scene Twelfth. At Court^ 

Enter Emperour, Castile, Henrie, Ellinor, Edward, Lacie, Raphe. 

Emper. Now, lovely Prince, the prince * of Albions wealth, 
How fares the Lady Ellinor and you ? 
What, have you courted and found Castile fit 
To answer England in equivolence ? 
Wilt be a match twixt bonny Nell and thee ? 

Edw. Should Paris enter in the courts of Greece, 
And not lie fetter'd in faire Hellen's lookes ? 



1 Dy. * to some fatal end,' and so G., W. 

2 Obsolete for 'coursed.' Miles' s pun. 



3 Corner cap. Ward. 

* Dy., W. 'prime.' Prob. 



xii] Frier Bacon 489 

Or Phoebus scape those piercing amorits 

That Daphne glaunsed at his deitie ? 

Can Edward, then, sit by a flame and freeze, 10 

Whose heat puts Hellen and faire Daphne downe ? 

Now, Monarcks, aske the ladie if we gree. 

Hen. What, madam, hath my son found grace or no ? 

Ellinor. Seeing, my lord, his lovely counterfeit, 
And hearing how his minde and shape agreed, 15 

I come 1 not, troopt with all this warlike traine. 
Doubting of love, but so efFectionat 
As 2 Edward hath in England what he wonne in Spaine. 

Castile. A match, my lord ; these wantons needes must love : 
Men must have wives, and women will be wed : 20 

Lets hast the day to honour up the rites. 

Raphe. Sirha Harry, shall Ned marry Nell ? 

Henry. I, Raphe ; how then ? 

Raphe. Marrie, Harrie, follow my counsaile : send for Frier 
Bacon to marrie them, for heele so conjure him and her with his 
nigromancie, that they shall love togither like pigge and lambe 
whilest they live. 27 

Castile. But hearst thou, Raphe, art thou content to have Ellinor 
to thy ladie ? 

Raphe. I, so she will promise me two things. 30 

Castile. Whats that. Raphe ? 

Raphe. That shee will never scold with Ned, nor fight with 
me. — Sirha Harry, I have put her downe with a thing unpossible. 

Henry. Whats that. Raphe ? 34 

Raphe. Why, Harrie, didst thou ever see that a woman could 
both hold her tongue and her handes ? No : but when egge-pies 
growes on apple-trees, then will thy gray mare proove a bag-piper. 

Emperour. What saies^ the Lord of Castile and the Earle of Lin- 
colne, that they are in such earnest and secret talke ? 

Castile. I stand, my lord, amazed at his talke, 40 

How he discourseth of the constancie 

1 Possible J but Dy., W. 'came.' 

2 that. Dy, " line corrupted. " No. Appendix D, 3 h. 
8 Probable: but Do., Dy., W., 'say.' 



2 that. Dy, " line corrupted. " No 
8 Probable; but Do., Dy., W., 'say 



490 The honourable historie of [sc 

Of one surnam'd, for beauties excellence, 
The Faire Maid of merrie Fresingfield. 

Henrie. Tis true, my lord, tis wondrous for to heare ; 
Her beautie passing Marces ^ parramour, 45 

Her virgins right ^ as rich as Vestas was : 
Lacie and Ned hath told me miracles. 

Castile. What saies Lord Lacie ? shall she be his wife ? 

Lacie. Or els Lord Lacie is unfit to live. — 
May it please your highnesse give me leave to post 50 

To Fresingfield, He fetch the bonny girle. 
And proove, in true apparance at the court, 
What I have vouched often with my tongue. 

Henrie. Lacie, go to the quirie ^ of my stable, 
And take such coursers as shall fit thy turne : 55 

Hie thee to Fresingfield, and bring home the lasse,* 
And, for her fame flies through the English coast. 
If it may please the Ladie Ellinor, 
One day shall match your excellence and her. 

Ellinor. We Castile ladies are not very coy; 60 

Your highnesse may command a greater boone : 
And glad were I to grace the Lincolne earl 
With being partner of his marriage day. 

Edward. Gramercie, Nell, for I do love the lord, 
As he thats second to my selfe^ in love. 65 

Raphe. You love her ? — Madam Nell, never beleeve him you, 
though he sweares he loves you. 

Ellinor. Why, Raphe ? 

Raphe. Why, his love is like unto a tapsters glasse that is broken 
with every tuch ; for he loved the faire maid of Fresingfield once 
out of all hoe.6 — Nay, Ned, never wincke upon me : I care not, L 

Henrie. Raphe tels all ; you shall have a good secretarie of 
him. — 73 

1 For * Mars' s ' — so eds. ^ Dy^ <rite,' needlessly. Perfectly clear. 

^ For querry (equerry) j so eds. But Q 3 *quiry.' * Appendix A, i. 

^ Dy. , W., 'thyself.' G., as above, for Edw. means "I love Lacie because he loves 
Margaret almost as well as I love you." 

6 Beyond recall, '* out of cry." Cf. the American slang " out of sight," = in excess. Or 
is that a corruption of ausgezeicbnet f 



J Frier Bacon 491 



XIII 

But, Lacie, haste thee post to Fresingfield ; 

For. ere thou hast fitted all things for her state, 75 

The solemne marriage day will be at hand. 

Lacie. I go, my Lord. Exit Lacie, 

Emperour. How shall we passe this day, my lord ? 
Henrie. To horse, my lord ; the day is passing faire, 

Weele flie the partridge, or go rouse the deere. 80 

Follow, my lords ; you shall not want for sport. 

Exeunt. 

[Scene Thirteenth. Frier Bacons cell^ 

Enter Frier Bacon with Frier Bungay to his cell. 

Bungay, What meanes the frier that frolickt it of late, 
To sit as melancholie in his cell ^ 
As if he had neither lost nor wonne to-day ? 

Bacon. Ah, Bungay ,2 . . . my Brazen-head is spo[i]Pd, 
My glorie gone, my seven yeares studie lost! 5 

The fame of Bacon, bru [i] ted through the world, 
Shall end and perish with this deepe disgrace. 

Bun. Bacon hath built foundation of ^ his fame 
So surely on the wings of true report. 

With acting strange and uncoth miracles, lO 

As this cannot infringe what he deserves. 

Bacon. Bungay, sit down, for by prospective skill 
I find this day shall fall out ominous : 
Some deadly act shall tide me ere I sleep ; 

But what and wherein little can I gesse, 1 5 

My minde is heavy, what so ere shall hap.* 

Enter two Schollers, sonnes to Lambert and Serlby. Knocke, 

Whose that knocks ? 

Bungay. Two schollers that desires to speake with you. 

1 Q I repeats the line. 2 Appendix C, i h. ^ Q I °"- 

4 So G. and W. — Qtos, Do., Dy. give the line to Bungay. — After * hap,' Dy., and W. 
[^Knocking ivithinj- and after 'come in' \_Enter tivo Scholars']. But I think with G. that 
O I may be right for, "the stage may have been divided into two compartments." 



492 The honourable historie of [sc 

Bacon. Bid them come in. — 
Now, my youths, what would you have ? 20 

1 Scholler. Sir, we are SufFolkemen and neighbouring friends ; 
Our fathers in their countries lustie squires ; 

Their lands adjoyne : in Crackfield ^ mine doth dwell, 
And his in Laxfield. We are colledge-mates, 

Sworne brothers, as our fathers live as friendes. 25 

Bacon. To what end is all this ? 

2 Scholler. Hearing your worship kept within your cell 
A glasse prospective, wherin men might see 

What so their thoughts or hearts desire could wish, 

We come to know how that our fathers fare. 30 

Bacon. My glasse is free far every honest man. 
Sit downe, and you shall see ere long,^ 
How or in what state your friendly fathers live.3 
Meane while, tell me your names. 

Lambert. Mine Lambert. 35 

2 Scholler. And mine Serlsbie. 

Bacon. Bungay, I smell there will be* a tragedie. 

Enter '^ Lambert and Serlsbie with rapiers and daggers. 

Lambert. Serlsby, thou hast* kept thine houre* like a man; 
Th'art worthie of the title of a squire, 

That durst, for proofe of thy affection 40 

And for thy mistresse favour, prize ^ thy bloud. 
Thou knowst what words did passe at Fresingfield, 
Such shamelesse braves as manhood cannot brooke : 
I,'' for I skorne to beare such piercing taunts, — 
Prepare thee, Serlsbie ; one of us will die. 45 

Serlsbie. Thou seest I single [meet] thee [in] the field,^ 
And what I spake. He maintaine with my sword : 
Stand on thy guard, I cannot scold it out. 
And if thou kill me, thinke I have a sonne, 

1 Cratfield. Nine miles from Framl. Ward. 

2 So Qtos, allowing for a foot-pause after * Sit down.' But if the 4 ft. line is not intentional, 
W.'s reading is best " ere long 5 how | Or in," etc. Dy. reads, *' ere long, [sirs,] how " | . — 
G, "ere [it be] long" | . ^ q \^ father li-ves. ' * Appendix 5, i and 2. 

5 In the upper stage. ^ j-jsk. 7 ay_ 8 Insertions by Dy. Cf x. 85. 



xin] Frier Bacon 



493 



That lives in Oxford in the Brodgateshall,i ^o 

Who will revenge his fathers bloud with bloud. 

Lambert. And, Serlsbie, I have there a lusty boy, 
That dares at weapon buckle with thy sonne, 
And lives in Broadgates too, as well as thine : 
But draw thy rapier, for weele have a bout.2 ^t- 

Bacon. Now, lustie yonkers, looke within the glasse,^ 
And tell me if you can discerne your sires. 

/ Scol. Serlsbie, tis hard ; thy father offers wrong 
To combat with my father in the field. 

2 Schol. Lambert, thou liest, my fathers is the abuse,* 60 

And thou shalt find it, if my father harme.^ 

Bungay. How goes it, sirs ? 

/ Scholler.^ Our fathers are in combat hard by Fresingfield. 

Bacon. Sit still, my friendes, and see the event. 

Lambert. Why standst thou, Serlsbie ? doubtst thou of thy life ? 
A venie,6 man ! fair Margret craves so much. 66 

Serlsbie. Then this for her. 

/ Scholler. Ah, well thrust ! 

2 Scholler. But marke the ward. 

They'^ fight and kill ech other. 

Lambert. Oh, I am slaine! -^ 

Serlsbie. And I, — Lord have mercie on me ! 

1 Scholler. My father slaine ! — Serlby, ward that. 

2 Scholler. And so is mine ! 8 — Lambert, He quite thee well. 

The two Schollers stab o?i\_e'] another. 
Bungay. O strange strattagem ! 

Bacon. See, Frier, where the fathers ^ both lie dead ! 75 

Bacon, thy magicke doth effect this massacre : 

1 Now Pembroke. ^Q^i, about. 

Up to this point Bacon has been preparing the glass 5 after this, the friars know only what 
the scholars impart. 4 ^^....^ c cr 

5 c r» J k C2Lnse of oftence. 

bo y I and Dy. _ Q 3 has ' suffers harm. ' Q 4 and W. * have harm. ' I have heard 
harm used intransitively in the west of Ireland 

6 bout. Shak. M.fV.PF. I. i. 296. 7 The fathers 

8 G. finds difficulties. But the text is clear : *' My . . . slaine " is answered by ** And 

■ ■ 9 n'"^ r^' xxf^ ^ • • • ?'' " ^y '* ^''"^"" • • • ^^H-" Appendix C, 2 c ; Z), 3 a. 
Dy., G. W. query ' scholars.' No. Bacon has now stepped to the glass, and for the 
first time sees the catastrophe in Suffolk. 



494 'T^^^ honourable historic of [sc 

This glasse prospective worketh manie woes ; 

And therefore seeing these brave lustie Brutes,^ 

These friendly youths, did perish by thine art, 

End all thy magicke and thine art at once. 8o 

The poniard that did end the ^ fatall ^ lives, 

Shall breake the cause efficiat * of their u^oes. 

So fade the glasse, and end with it the showes 

That nigromancie did infuse the christall with. 

He breakes the glass. 

Bungay. What means learned Bacon thus to breake his glasse ? 

Bacon. I tell thee, Bungay, it repents me sore 86 

That ever Bacon meddled in this art. 
The houres I have spent in piromanticke spels, 
The fearefull tossing in the latest night 

Of papers full of nigromanticke charmes, 90 

Conjuring and adjuring divels and fiends. 
With stole and albe and strange pentaganon ; ^ 
The wresting of the holy name of God, 
As Sother,^ Elaim, and Adonaie,' 

Alpha, Manoth, and Tetragramiton,^ 95 

With praying to the five-fould^ powers of heaven, 
Are instances that Bacon must be damde 
For using divels to countervaile his God. — 
Yet, Bacon, cheere thee, drowne not in despaire : 
Sinnes have their salves, repentance can do much ; ^^ 100 

Thinke Mercie sits where Justice holds her seate. 
And from those wounds those bloudie Jews did pierce, 
Which by thy magicke oft did bleed a fresh. 
From thence for thee the dew of mercy drops. 

To wash the wrath of hie Jehovahs ire, 105 

And make thee as a new borne babe from sinne. — 

1 Q I, ' brutes,' but evidently in the sense of * braves ' or ' Britons.' See R.D. I. ii. 124 
and N.E.D. 2 Oy, and W. 'their.' 3 fated. 

* W. reads ' efficient ' ; but it is possible that Greene intended this more heroic formation. 
^ Dy. and W. ' pentageron ' in view of ii. 49 ; but Greene may have written * pentagonon.' 
^ 2a;Ti7p. ' Q 3> * Eloim and Adonai.' 

8 Q 3, ' Tetragrammaton ' ; the four-lettered symbol of the ineffable name. 

9 Which of the magical hierarchies is uncertain. See Ward, 0. E. D. pp. 267, 268. 
10 11. 100-106. Cf. Faustus, xiv. 72 and 77. 



xiv] Frier Bacon 



495 



Bungay, He spend the remnant of my life 

In pure devotion, praying to my God 

That he would save what Bacon vainly lost. Exit. 

[ Scene Fourteenth. A Meadow near the Keepers lodge.'] 
Eriter Margret /;/ nuns apparely Keeper, her father^ and thei?- Friend. 

Keep. Margret, be not so headstrong in these vows : 
O, burie not such beautie in a cell. 
That England hath held famous for the hue ! 
Thy fathers haire like to the silver bloomes 

That beautifie the shrubs of Affrica, 5 

Shall fall before the dated time of death. 
Thus to forgoe his lovely Marg[a]ret. 

Margret. A [h] , father, when the hermonie of heaven 
Soundeth the measures of a lively faith. 

The vaine illusions of this flattering world 10 

Seemes odious to the thoughts of Marg[a]ret. 
I loved once, — Lord Lacie was my love; 
And now I hate my selfe for that I lovd. 
And doated more on him than on my God ; 

For this I scourge my selfe with sharpe repents. 15 

But now the touch of such aspiring sinnes 
Tels me all love is lust but love of heavens : 
That beautie usde for love is vanitie ; 
The world containes naught but alluring baites, 
Pride,^ flatterie, and inconstant thoughts. 20 

To shun the pricks of death,^ I leave the world, 
And vow to meditate on heavenly blisse. 
To live in Framingham a holy nunne. 
Holy and pure in conscience and in deed; 

And for to wish all maides to learne of me 25 

To seek heavens joy before earths vanitie. 

Friend. And will you, then, Margret, be shorn a nunne, and so 
leave us all? 

1 Appendix C, i a. ^2 Cor, xv. 56. 



496 The honourable historie of [sc 

Margret. Now farewell world, the engin of all woe ! 
Farewell to friends and father ! Welcome Christ ! 30 

Adiew to daintie robes ! this base attire 
Better befits an humble minde to God 
Than all the show of rich abilliments. 
Love 1 ... oh love ! — and, with fond love, farewell 
Sweet Lacie, whom I loved once so deare ! 35 

Ever be well, but never in my thoughts. 
Least I offend to think on Lacies love : 
But even to that, as to the rest, farewell. 

Enter Lacie, Warrain, Ermsbie, booted a?id spurd. 

Lack. Come on, my wags, weere near the keepers lodge. 
Heere have I oft walkt in the watrie meades, 40 

And. chatted with my lovely Marg[a] ret. 

Warraine. Sirha Ned, is not this the keeper ? 

Lacie. Tis the same. 

Ermsbie. The old lecher hath gotten holy mutton to him ; a 
nunne, my lord. 45 

Lacie. Keeper, how farest thou ? holla, man, what cheere ? 
How doth Peggie, thy daughter and my love ? 

Keeper. Ah, good my lord ! O, wo is me for Pegge ! 
See where she stands clad in her nunnes attire, 

Readie for to be shorne in Framingham : 50 

She leaves the world because she left ^ your love. 
Oh, good my lord, perswade her if you can ! 

Lacie. Why, how now, Margret ! what, a malecontent .? 
A nunne ? what holy father taught you this, 

To taske your selfe to such a tedious life 55 

As die a maid ? twere injurie to me. 
To smother up such bewtie in a cell. 

Margret. Lord Lacie, thinking of thy ^ former* misse. 
How fond the prime of wanton yeares were spent 
In love (Oh, fie upon that fond conceite, 60 

1 Appendix C, i a. 2 Wagner emends (?) Most.' 

3 Eds. alter to ' my.' But M, may mean " in view of how you failed me " or "in view 
of your mistaken fancy for me." * g i^ forme. 



xiv] Frier Bacon 497 

Whose hap and essence hangeth in the eye ! ), 

1 leave both love and loves content at once, 
Betaknig me to him that is true love, 

And leaving all the world for love of him. 

Lacy. Whence, Peggie, cones this metamorphosis ? 65 

What, shorne a nun, and I have from the court 
Posted with coursers to convaie thee hence 
To Windsore, where our manage shalbe kept I 
Thy wedding robes are in the tailors hands. 
Come, Peggy-, leave these peremptorie vowes. 70 

Margret. Did not my lord resigne his interest, 
And make divorce 'twixt Marg[a]ret and him? 

Lacie. Twas but to try sweete Peggies constancie. 
But will fair Margret leave her love and lord ? 

Margret. Is not heavens joy before earths fading blisse, 75 

And life above sweeter than life in love ? 

Lacy. Why,i then, Margret will be shorne a nun ? 

Marg. Margret hath made a vow which may not be revokt. 

Warraine. We cannot stav, my lord \ ^ and if she be so strict. 
Our leisure graunts us not to woo a fresh. 80 

Ermshy. Choose you, fair damsell, — yet the choise is yours, — 
Either a solemne nunnerie or the court, 
God or Lord Lacie : which '^ contents you best. 
To be a nun or els Lord Lacies wife ? 

Lacie. A good motion. — Peggie, your answer must be short. 

Margret. The flesh is fravle : my lord doth know it well 86 

That when he comes with his inchanting face. 
What so ere betyde, I cannot sav him nay. 
Off goes the habite of a maidens heart. 

And, seeing fortune will, faire Fremingham, 90 

And all the shew of holy nuns, farewell ! 
Lacie, for me, if he wilbe my lord. 

Lacie. Peggie, thy lord, thy love, thy husband.^ 
Trust me, by truth of knighthood, that the king 
Staies for to marry matchles Ellinour, 95 

1 For metre and text of 11. 77, 79, 99, see respectively Appendix C, 1 a ; B, 2, and D, 

2 a ; C, 2 c. ^ Q "> ivetch. 3 G. pronounces 'husseband.' Yes 

2 K 



49^ The honourable his tone of [sc 

Until I bring thee richly to the court, 

That one day may both marry her and thee. — 

How saist thou, Keeper? art thou glad of this ? 

Keeper. As if ^ the English king had given 
The parke and deere of Frisingfield to me. lOO 

Erms. I pray thee, my Lord of Sussex, why art thou in a broune 
study ? 

JVar. To see the nature of women ; that be they never so neare 
God, yet they love to die in a mans armes. 

Lacie. What have you fit for breakefast ? We have hied 
And posted all this night to Frisingfield.^ io6 

Mar. Butter and cheese, and humbl[e]s^ of a deere, 
Such as poore keepers have within their lodge.^ 

Lacie. And not a bottle of wine ? 

Margret. Weele find one for my lord. lio 

Lacie. Come, Sussex, . . . lets* in: we shall have more, 
For she speaks least, to hold her promise sure.^ \_Exeunt.'\ 

[Scene Fifteenth. Frier Bacons cell^ 

Enter a Devil! ^ to seeke Miles. 

Devill. How restles are the ghosts of hellish spirites, 
When everie charmer with his magick spels 
Cals us from nine-fold trenched Phlegethon,^ 
To scud and over-scoure the earth in post 

Upon the speedie wings of swiftest winds ! 5 

Now Bacon hath raisd me from the darkest deepe, 
To search about the world for Miles his man, 
For Miles, and to torment his lasie bones 
For careles watching'^ of his Brazen-head. 

See where he comes : Oh, he is mine. lO 

Enter Miles with a gowne and a corner cap. 

Miles. A scholler, quoth you! marry, sir, I would I had bene 
made a botlemaker when I was made a scholler ; for I can get 

1 See note i, p. 497. 2 q j hgg li^es 105-108, 11 i-i 12, as prose. Eds. as above. 

3 entrails. * Eds. 'letus. ' But see Appendix C, \ b. ^ Q ^ = Deuill. 

^ Q I : Blegiton; Q 3, Phlegiton. ' Q i> ivatchidg. — Q 3 corrects. — G. qy. 'watchadge. ' 



XV 



] Frier Bacon 499 



neither to be a deacon, reader,^ nor schoolemaister, no, not the 
clarke of a parish. Some call me dunce ; another saith, my head is 
as full of Latine as an egs full of oatemeale : thus I am tormented, 
that the devil and Frier Bacon haunts me. — Good Lord, heers one 
of my maisters devils ! He goe speake to him. — What, Maister 
Plutus, how chere you ? 

Dev'ilL Doost thou know me ? 19 

Miles. Know you, sir ! why, are not you one of my maisters 
devils, that were wont to come to my maister. Doctor Bacon, at 
Brazennose ? 

Devil. Yes, marry, am I. 

Miles. Good Lord, M [aister] Plutus, I have scene you a thou- 
sand times at my maisters, and yet I had never the manners to 
make you drinke. But, sir, I am glad to see how conformable you 
are to the statute.^ — I warrant you, hees as yeomanly a man as you 
shall see : marke you, maisters, heers a plaine honest man, without 
welt or garde.^ — But I pray you, sir, do you come lately from hel ? 

Devil. I, marry : how then ? 30 

Miles. Faith, tis a place I have desired long to see : have you 
not good tipling-houses there ? may not a man have a lustie fier 
there, a pot of good ale, a paire of cardes, a swinging peece of 
chalke,^ and a browne toast that will clap a white wastcoat * on a 
cup of good drinke ? 35 

Devil. All this you may have there. 

Miles. You are for me, freinde, and I am for you. But I pray 
you, may I not have an office there ? 

Devil. Yes, a thousand : what wouldst thou be ? 39 

Miles. By my troth, sir, in a place where I may profit my selfe. 
I know hel is a hot place, and men are mervailous drie, and much 
drinke is spent there; I would be a tapster. 

Devil. Thou shalt. 

Miles. Theres nothing lets me from going with you, but that tis 
a long journey, and I have never a horse. 45 

Devil. Thou shalt ride on my backe. ^ 

1 I.e. in the church. 2 /_^ against facings and trimmings. Mouse in 7l<f«ff^orKi 

usesthesame phrase (H. Dods. VII, 213). 3 For his ale-account. But G. qy. 'cheese.' 

^ bring it to a froth. ^ So, as late as Newfangle in L. Will to L. and Bailiff in Kn.Kn. 



500 The honourable hist or ie of [sc. 

Miles. Now surely her[e]s a courteous devil, that, for to pleas- 
ure ^ his friend, will not stick to make a jade of him self. — But I 
pray you, goodman friend, let me move a question to you. 

Dev. Whats that ? 50 

Miles. I pray you, whether is your pace a trot or an amble ? 

Dev. An amble. 

Miles. Tis well ; but take heed it be not a trot ; but tis no mat- 
ter. He prevent it. [Stoops.~\ 

Dev. What doest ? 55 

Miles. Mary, friend, I put on my spurs ; for if I find your pace 
either a trot or els uneasie. He put you to a false gallop ; He make 
you feele the benefit of my spurs. 

Dev. Get up upon my backe. 

Miles. O Lord, here's even a goodly marvel, when a man rides 
to hell on the devil's back ! Exeunt : [the Devil] roaring. 

[Scene Sixteenth. At Court.'] 

Enter the Emperour with a point less e sword ; next the King of Castile car- 
ryi?ig a sword with a point ; Lacy carrying the globe ; Edward ; War- 
RAiNE carrying a rod of gold with a dove on it ; ^ Ermsby with a crowne 
and sceptre ; the Queene ; [Princess Elinor] with the /aire Maide of 
Fresingfield on her left hand ; Henry ; Bacon ; with other Lords 
attending. 

Edward. Great potentates, earth's miracles for state, 
Think that Prince Edward humbles at your feet, 
And, for these favours, on his martial sword 
He vows perpetuall homage to yourselves, 
Yeelding these honours unto Ellinour. 5 

Henrie. Gramercies, lordings ; old Plantagenet, 
That rules and swayes the Albion diademe. 
With teares discovers these conceived joyes, 
And vows requitall if his men at armes. 
The wealth of England, or due honours done 10 

1 Q I (B. M.) ends with this word. 

2 The curtana or * pointless sword ' of mercy j the ' pointed sword ' of justice ; the ' golden 
rod ' of equity. 



xvi] Frier Bacon 



501 



To Elllnor, may quite his favourites.^ 

But all this while what say you to the dames 

That shine like to the christall lampes of heaven ? 

E?nperour. If but a third were added to these two, 
They did surpasse those gorgeous images 15 

That gloried Ida with rich beauties wealth. 

Mar. Tis I, my lords, who humbly on my knee 
Must yeeld her horisons to mighty Jove 
For lifting up his handmaide to this state ; 

Brought from her homely cottage to the court, 20 

And grasde with kings, princes, and emperours. 
To whom (next to the noble Lincolne earle) 
I vow obedience, and such humble love 
As may a handmaid to such mighty men. 

P. EUn. Thou martiall man that wears the Almaine crown, 25 
And you the western potentates of might. 
The Albian princesse, English Edwards wife, 
Proud that the lovely star of Fresingfield, 
Fair Margret, Countess to the Lincoln earle. 

Attends on Ellinour, — gramercies, lord, for her, — 30 

Tis I give thankes for Margret, to you all. 
And rest for her due bounden to your selves. 

Henrie. Seeing the marriage is solemnized,^ 
Lets march in triumph to the royall feast. — 
But why stands Frier Bacon here so mute ? 35 

Bacon. Repentant for the follies of my youth. 
That magicks secret mysteries misled. 
And joyfull that this royall marriage 
Portends such blisse unto this matchless realme. 

Hen. Why, Bacon, what strange event shall happen to this land ? 
Or what shall grow from Edward and his queene ? 41 

Bacon. I find by deep praescience ^ of mine art, 
Which once I tempred in my secret cell. 
That here where Brute did build his Troynovant, 
From forth the royall garden of a king 45 

1 Dy. , G. qy. ' favourers. ' * solemnized. 

® The sequel is the compliment to Queen Elizabeth. 



50 2 Frier Bacon [sc xvi] 

Shall flourish out so rich and fair a bud, 
Whose brightnesse shall deface proud Phoebus' flowre, 
And over-shadow Albion with her leaves. 
Till then Mars shall be master of the field, 

But then the stormy threats of war shall cease : 50 

The horse shall stamp as carelesse of the pike, 
Drums shall be turn'd to timbrels of delight ; 
With wealthy favours plenty shall enrich 
The strond that gladded wandring Brute to see. 
And peace from heaven shall harbour in these leaves 55 

That gorgeous beautifies this matchlesse flower : 
Apollos helletropian ^ then shall stoope, 
And Venus hyacinth shall vaile^ her top; 
Juno shall shut her gilliflowers up, 

And Pallas bay shall bash her brightest greene ; 60 

Ceres carnation, in consort with those. 
Shall stoope and wonder at Dianas rose. j 

Henrie. This prophecie is mysticall. — j 

But, glorious commanders ^ of Europas love, j 

That make faire England like that wealthy ile 65 j 

Circled with Gihen and swift ^ Euphrates, 
In royallizing Henries Albion 
With presence of your princely mightinesse, — 
Lets ^ march : the tables all are spred. 

And viandes, such as Englands wealth affords, 70 

Are ready set to furnish out the bords. 
You shall have welcome, mighty potentates : 
It rests to furnish up this royall feast. 
Only your hearts be frolicke ; for the time 

Craves that we taste of naught but jouissance. 75 

Thus glories England over all the west. \_Exeunt om?ies.'] 

Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci. 

1 Q 3, * hellitropian '^ Never too Late ' helitropion. ' Any kind of heliotrope or turn-sol. 

2 In G-a-Greene '* vail staff" ; in O.F. " vail thy plumes." 
^ Dy. , some corruption; suggests 'comrades.' But x. 148 confirms the text. See also 

Appendix Z), 3 a. 

* So Dy., citing 0. F. 11. 40-41, "swift Euphrates." Q i, Jirst. 
^ Appendix C, 2 c. 



APPENDIX 

Some Alleged Irregularities in the Versification of Friar Bacon 

If we take the first quarto of Friar Bacon as we find it, we shall see that 
some of the peculiarities in verse structure are mannerisms with which every 
student of contemporary drama is familiar, and that others may be justified as 
intended for rhythmical and dramatic expressiveness. These considerations 
convince me that it is best to leave the versification — and consequently most 
of the text — as it was in 1594. 

A. Accent. — i . Greene makes frequent use of the stress-syllable open- 
ing. — Sometimes for emphasis as in 

ii. 49. Bow to the force of his pentageron ; and in vi. 28, 35, 45, 58. 
Sometimes for the tripping eiFect, as in many of the lines assigned to Margaret, 
e.g. iii. 10, 13, 15, 21, 30, 31 ; and in lines expressive of the blithe, or 
the beautiful, such as i. 14, 15, 56, 60, 75, 81. Such stress-syllable open- 
ings are frequently counterbalanced by an anapasstic second or third foot ; 
occasionally by two anapaests, as in 

vi. 58. Lacie, love makes no exception of a friend ; 

xii. 56. Hie thee to Fresingfield and bring home the lasse. 

2. The stress syllable is used also to open the verse-section after the 
pause, e.g. : — 

i. 78. She turned her smocke | over her lilly armes ; and in iii. 7. 

But *over,' 'safely,' might be read with the hovering accent. So xvi. 21 
( * princes ' ) . Methods ( i ) and ( 2 ) appear to be combined in 

iii. 79. Make but a step | into the keepers lodge; and in iii. 81, iv. 5, 
vi. 138. 

3. The extra syllable is adroitly used before the verse-section (the epic 
ccesura') as a compensation for the stress-syllable opening : — 

ii. 156. Maister Burd.?/? | when shall we see you at Henley ? 
xiv. 47. (Pegg/> I thy daughter, etc.), and vi. 58 as above (Lac/> | love 
makes). 

503 



504 Appendix 

4. The hovering accent is evident in such lines as 

viii. 149. I pray | God I | like her | as I 16v|ed thee. 

It emphasizes the reluctant utterance. Ignoring this, Dy. and G. change 
text and rhythm to : — 

' Pray God | I like | her as | I I6v|ed thee. 

B. Quantity. — i . A syllable is broken into a dissyllable, or prolonged 
by way of emphasis, in such cases as i. 168 (your heart's), ii. 18 (of all 
A this), ii. 170 (A-men), ix. 116 (haile, or haile), vi. 17, xii. 43 (faire), 
xiii. 38 (houre). In names like Marg(a)ret, Erm(e)sbie, diaeresis or dialy- 
sis often occurs. For Elizabethan usage, see Schipper, Neue?igL Metriky i : 
§ 53, and Knaut, Metrik R. Greene's (Halle, 1890). 

2. In vi. 4, 171, vii. 25, etc., such words as devils spirit , are con- 
tracted by synaeresis or slurring. In x. 55, xiii. 3, xiii. 38 (while I've; 
he'd; thou'st), we find elision or apocope, as, also, in xiv. 79, vi. 162, 
xiii. 37 ('n if she be ; 'n if your honour; there'll be). In vig''ry ETnory 
friWy pow^TyJi^ryy syncope. In vi. 135, ix 129 (To^avoid ; no^unlesse), 
synaloepha. Evidently the dramatist has in mind the spoken sentence, in 
which slurring and rapid pronunciation are more likely to occur than omis- 
sion of syllables. 

C. Lacking Syllables. — i . Compensation for one syllable is made by a 
rhetorical pause, or by lengthening or emphasizing the next syllable, e.g.y 

(a) In the first foot, for an absent thesis : — 

vi. 17. A That this fai-f courteous countrie swaine ; 
vi. 130. A Made me thinke the shadows substances ; 

unless we read with hovering accent, sc. ** Made me A thinke," which 
would accumulate the emphasis upon * thinke.' Do., Dy., W., gratui- 
tously insert * to ' before * thinke. ' 

vi. 1 6 1 . A Why stands frier Bungay so amazed ? 

Another acephalous line. The suppression of the light syllable accentuates 
the arsis 'Why.' For similar suppression in questions see i. 20, ii. 156. 

xiv. 77. A Why, — then Margret will be shorne a nun ? 

Accumulated emphasis of surprise. So, in iii. 4 : (A Thomas, maids 
when they come), etc.; and in 

xiv. 34. A Love . . . oh. Love ! — and with fond Love, farewell. 

Dy., G., W., ** Farewell, oh Love" for first two feet. But why should 
Margaret repeat a verb which she has used twice already in this speech } As for 



Appendix 505 



aret 
or 



Greene, he was not writing a primer of prosody for school recitations. MargL 
has said farewell to world, friends, father, and dainty robes, then with a sigh 

sob, for which Greene allows by the lacuna, she bids adieu to the dearest 

** A Love ... oh Love." The pause before Love heightens the explosion. 
A similar effect is produced by the suppression at the beginning of 

xiv. 20. A Pride, flatter|ie and | inconstant thoughts 
or perhaps A Pride A flat|terie and. 

Dy. says this line is mutilated, and G. inserts * vanitie ' after * Pride.* But 
the Hne is all right. See also C, 2 ^, below. 

ix. 1 7 1 . A Gratious as the morning starre of heaven. 

I prefer this to Ward's emendation (approved by Wagner) * Gratious as 
/>,' because the Q is less sibilant and, owing to the pause, more deliberate 
and forcible. Greene may have written * As gracious ' ; for compare Look- 
ing-GlassCy 1. 14, 'As glorious,' etc. 

ix. 257. A Persia, downe her Volga by canows. 

The rhetorical emphasis on * her ' compensates (with the hovering accent) for 
the aposiopesis before * Persia.' Greene's metrical effects don't always count 
upon the fingers, but they are often rhythmically delightful. 

{F) For a lacking thesis in the second foot, a similar rhetorical pause, 
sometimes also an anap^stic third foot, may compensate, as in 



1. 1 1. 



And now A changde to a melancholie dumpe. 



The 'a' is in Q i. Wagner's emendation (^Anglia, p. 523; 1879), 
*^ he" s chang'd to melancholy dump," is futile. 

ii. 62. Carved out A like to the portall of the sunne. 

Pause for reflection. The ear is satisfied by the spondaic first foot and the 
anapaestic third. (With i. 11 and ii. 62 cf. A 2 above.) 

vii. 3. For he A troopt with all the westerne kings. 

The rhythmical aposiopesis represents a rhetorical pause for which the 
strongly accented ' troopt ' and * all ' compensate. Do., Dy., G., W., read 
'trooped,' — but I don't think Greene did. 

X. 27. Content A keeper ; send her unto us. 

I have inserted a dash for the pause of decision after * content ' : Lambert 
accepts the proposition and acts. No metrical stop-gap is necessary. 



5o6 Appendix 

Sometimes the arsis is lacking, and is supplied by a pause or gesture : — 
xiii. 4. Ah, Bungay, A my Brazen-head is spoiled. 

A second * ah ' suggests itself, and Dy. and W. print it. But I have no 
doubt Greene intended the speaker to draw breath for a sigh indicative of 
despair. 

xiv. III. Come, Sussex, A let's in we shall have more. 

The missing arsis is supplied by the pause that succeeds a command. With 
different punctuation we have * A Come ! j Sussex, let's in,' which is as 
good. The editors keep Lacie talking, 
(r) In the third foot, lacking thesis : — 

ix. 229. And give us cates A fit for countrey swaines. 

If the emperor did not pause for language suitable to the emergency, it was 
because he pronounced * cates ' as a dissyllable. Cf. Marlowe's Faustus 
(Dyce ed. 1850, p. 211), ** Pardon me sweet, A I forgot myself." 

ix. 144. How now, A Vandermast ! have you met with your match? 

Pause for surprise. If the pause should fall before * have ' it would indicate 
the transition to inquiry. In this and the next instance anapaestic compensa- 
tion is prominent. 

ix. 148. Why Vandermast, A art thou overcome,? 

But it is rhetorically more natural to read : * A Why A Vandermast, art thou 
overcome ? ' 

(^) In the fourth foot, lacking thesis : — 

V. 62-64. Edzv. To whom speakest thou? Bacon. To thee. Edzu. 
A Who art thou ? 

Pause justified by change of speaker, and the indignant inquiry. 

2. Two or more syllables lacking. To assume that omissions of this 
kind are due to carelessness on the part of author, scribe, or printer, is to beg 
the question. It is more reasonable to premise the genuineness of the lines 
and consider whether each in turn is not to be justified by its dramatic con- 
ditions. The following sixteen exhaust, I think, the more flagrant instances 
of lacuna in this play. In none would I alter the text of the first quarto. 

(tf) Edward's lines : — 

vi. 47. Gogs wounds A Bacon here comes Lacie A. 

Abrupt outcry, in which the less and the more forcible exclamatory pauses 
are metrically provided for by the lacking thesis and arsis respectively. The 



Appendix 507 

lacking thesis allows also for the transition from surprise to affirmation. This 
line is paralleled by 

vi. 127. Gogs wounds A Bacon they kisse ! He stab them A. 

The former pause for breathless amazement ; the latter for decision and a 
gesture. He raises his hand to deal the blow. 

vi. 146. Helpe, Bacon A ! A stop the marriage now ! 

Dyce, **some word or words wanting." Others would supply ** Helpe! 
and " and so reduce the line to mediocrity. The omission is intentional. 
The exclamatory pause after ' Bacon ' is metrically equivalent to an accented 
syllable. The pause before 'stop' is for Edward's quandary — as if he 
should for a moment cast about for an appropriate request. The line might 
of course be interpreted so as to require one lacking thesis before * Helpe ' and 
one before * Bacon.' 

vi. 108. A How familiar they be. Bacon, A A. 

First pause, the gasp before an interrogatory exclamation. Second pause 
for Bacon's * Sit still,' which as a convertible foot is the last of this line and 
the first of the next. 

vi. I 76. The foot pause before * Flees ' may allow for a burst of laughter. 
Wagner suggests * very fear,' which no compatriot of Greene, if he read the 
line aloud, can tolerate. Until EngHsh is a dead language it will hardly be 
judicious to encourage foreign emendations of our masterpieces. 

{h) Margaret's lines. 

iii. 46. Suppression of the first two feet in rapid dialogue. The words 
* sent this rich purse ' might have been set down before * To me ? ' but with 
what advantage save to fill the pentameter ? For the clause has occurred 
once and the verb twice already in the last six lines. The suppression 
intensifies the dialogue, and accentuates the mingled surprise and impatience 
of the speaker. 

viii. 132. A rhetorical pause occupies the first foot or the last. Like the 
preceding instance in so far as the aposiopesis indicates question and surprise. 
Dy., G., insert 'indeed ' before 'mean' : easy but needless. 

X. 156. Dy. queries 'shall be' after 'wealth.' But the words 'shall 
be ' are implied from the preceding line, and so intentionally omitted. An 
additional rhetorical emphasis falls upon trash: — 

Wealth, 7\ /\ trash ; love, hate ; pfeasiare, dispaire. 

xiv. 20. Impassioned soliloquy within an address, Hke x. 158. The 
light syllables of the first and second feet are suppressed to increase the efi^ect 
of the accented syllables : /\ Pride /\ flatterie and — . 



5o8 Appendix 

(f) Lines of other characters. 

ii. 157. The infuriate Burden occupies the first foot with a stifled 
' Henly ! ' or something unreverend. 

ix. 1 20. An interrogatory pause for the first foot or an exclamatory for 
the last ; unless we combine the lines thus : — 

Van. What art thou that questionst thus ? Bacon. Men call me Bacon. 

ix. 162. Why, A Bacon, whither dost thou send him. 

As in vi. 161, and ix. 148, the lacunas correspond with moments of 
breathless surprise ; and emphasis is accumulated upon the syllables respec- 
tively succeeding. If we scan without pauses, the lacunae will occupy the 
fifth foot which might naturally be reserved for Bacon's echo-question [send 
him?]. * Whither,' probably contracted 'whe'r.' 

x. I 50. What answere shall I returne to my lord ? \_Marg. Returne .^] 

Another echo-foot. Unless we pronounce * returne ' for which there is 
authority, as in iv. 56, * progress,' ix. 242, * exceed.' See Schipper, 
NeuengL Metr., p. 153. 

xiii. 72. My father slaine ! A A Serlby, ward that. 

The thesis of the third foot allows for the recoil of horror ; the arsis for 
the transition to revenge — the drawing of the rapier. 

xiv. 99. Echo of the previous idea, unuttered because dramatically under- 
stood ; \j Js giad'^ as if,' etc. Dy. suggests insertion ' As glad as if,' and 

A A 
G. adopts. No. 

xvi. 69. Let's march : A Y the tables all are spread. 

The silent foot allows for the rhetorical pause between command and 
affirmation. Cf. vi. 146. Dy.'s * Let us march hence,'' and G.'s * Let us 
march tf;/,' will do well enough if we must keep somebody talking all the 
time. 

D. Additional Syllables. — Like the foregoing apparently deficient lines 
it will be found that, properly read, most of the so-called hypermetric lines 
conform to the pentameter. The dozen or so that do not are warranted 
by historic, if not by rhetorical, conditions. At any rate they are much 
more likely to be the lines that Greene wrote than are the * procrustitutes ' 
which we might suggest. 

I. Readers should allow ^ox feminine endings y as 

ix. III. To them of Sien, Florence and Belogna ; 
or Bo Ionia, gliding ending. 



Appendix 509 

ii. 156. f\ Maister Burden when shall we see you at Henly ? 

Of feminine endings Knaut counts ten, and about four gliding. 

2. They should allow also for the anapsest in itself (as ix. 231) or by way 
of compensation for a missing syllable in an adjoining foot. Two such give 
the appearance of a senarius. Occasionally, as in vi. 163 (* gay straightway,* 
or * way from Fres — '), the foot is awkward. Even so, I do not think that 
the emendation * straight' (Dy., W.) for this * straightway ' is necessary. 

3. Se?iarii. (a^ The following are such in appearance only. They 
should be read as pentameters in which the anapaest, slurring, or elision, is 
employed. In 

i. 156. Send letters speed'ly | to Oxford of the newes, 

we have the epic cassura. So also vi. 94, caesura after * Beckles ' ; and so 

X. 77. Give me . . . but ten days' respite | and lie reply, 
and xvi. 30. Attends on El' nor | gramercies, lord, for her. 

In ix. 191. /\ Martiall Plantagenet | Henries highminded sonne, 

we have the lyric cssura ; so also in 

xiii. 67. Then this for her | Ah, well thrust. But marke, the ward. 

Cf. Schipper Neuengl. Metr.y p. 25 /?. 

In iii. 51. For we've little leisure to debate of that, 

vi. 1 31-13 2. 'Tvvere a long poinard, my lord, to reach betweene 

y\ Oxford and Fresingfield, but sit still and see more, 
vi. 162. I've strook him dum my lord | 'n if your honor please, 
ix. 31. Of elemental essence, terra's but thought, 
ix. 45. And of the vig'r of the geomantic fiends, 
xiv. 79. We cannot stay my lord | 'n if she be so strict, — 

anapaestic readings with natural apocope or syncope preserve the pentameter. 
Dy's 'you' for 'your honor' in vi. 162, and omission of * my lord' in 
xiv. 79, are therefore unnecessary. 

xvi. 64 appears to have six feet ; but if it is taken in sequence with the 
preceding line the effect is of two five-foot lines. 

((^) The following senarii of Q i are real, and should be preserved, though 
Dyce and Ward generally place the first foot in a line by itself. The Mar- 
lowan reform had not yet completed the rout of the Alexandrine, — and 
even if it had Greene would have remained unrouted. He uses the Alexan- 
drine, sometimes unconsciously, sometimes for variety. Perhaps a few of 
these senarii, i. 10, 83 ; ii. 1 12, 148 ; iii. 26 ; vi. 77 ; ix. 185 ; x. 149 ; 
xi. 7, 92 ; xii. 18 ; xiv. 78 ; xvi. 40, are accidental, but most of them are 



5IO Appendix . 

intended to be impressive, and the additional foot generally indicates the 
person most concerned. 

E. Other Debated Lines. 

iv. II. Ward retains the senarius. Dyce thinks * corrupted,' and queries, 
* As Agenor's damsel did,* for 'through the deep' is almost a repetition 
of 'through the seas.' — Wagner : Mike Europa through the deep.' — Per- 
haps (says Palgrave ace. to Ward) the dramatist pronounced the name Agenor, 
We might then scan : — 

And venture as Agenor's damsel through the deep. 

But it is quite as likely that Greene intended, or let slip, a senarius. 
ix. 112. The quartos are right, and we should scan thus : — 

Reimes, Lovain, and fai-r Rotherdam. 

For 'fayer,' etc., see B i, above. By altering to * Rheims,' Do., Dy., 
G., and W. miss the metre. G., for instance, reads * Rheims [and]' ; Elze 
{Notes on Elizab, Dramatists^ Halle, 1886, cxcix) : * Of Rheims, ofLouvain 
and fair Rotterdam' ; Knaut : 'Rheims, Loiivain, Paris and.' But if vye 
preserve the spelling of the quartos the scansion is simple. 

A Few Conclusions. — Greene was sensitive to dramatic niceties of utter- 
ance. Hence most of the metrical idiosyncrasies which are improperly 
called irregularities. An induction from the instances cited under C above shows 
that the following were the conditions of utterance to which he accorded special 
elocutionary recognition : the pause before a question or a response and the 
increase of emphasis upon the syllable succeeding the silence ; the pause for 
reflection, and the pause before deliberate utterance ; decision attending a com- 
mand ; the pause of speechless anger ; the stoppage due to sighing, sobbing, 
horror, or any recoil of emotion ; the period of, or after, a gesture, an inartic- 
ulate cry, a burst of laughter, an exclamatory remark ; the pause during the 
suppression of the self-explanatory. The examination of his practice in 
Friar Bacon shows that in order to represent these conditions in dramatic 
blank verse Greene availed himself of silent beats with a uniformity that might 
be called system, were it the outcome of anything less spontaneous than the 
rhetorical instinct and the feeling for rhythm. Subordinating these to his 
knowledge of stage * business,' Greene seems, then, to have developed a metrical 
use of the lacuna somewhat Hke this: — 

Before an important affirmation, the name of one addressed in exclamation, 
an inquiry, an imperative request, a command; 

At the transition from one form of utterance to another, the suppression of 
word or words understood, the gulp of rage, the burst of laughter ; 



Appendix 5 1 1 

After an outcry. 

These conclusions are confirmed by an examination of the other plays in 
which the text is fairly authentic. The dramatist naturally and, in that sense, 
intentionally suited his * lines ' to the histrionic emergency : an achievement 
not difficult for one of his rhetorical quality, who was also familiar with the 
practice of the stage. On similar grounds and with a regard likewise for the 
conditions of verse at the time, his senarii are to be retained and defended. 

Most of the attempts to reduce his dramatic blank verse to anything like 
measured uniformity are, therefore, in my opinion academic and superfluous. 
They are indeed worse, for not only do they ignore the personal equation, 
they tend to pervert the data from which the history of English metres must 
be derived. There may, of course, be lines, like vi. i 7 and ix. 47 of this 
play, where dramatist or intermediary has unwittingly omitted something, or 
actor wantonly added, but they are few; and unless the sense calls out for 
orthopaedic assistance, no literary, historical, or philological interest is sub- 
served by doctoring the text. 



Henry Porter 



THE PLEASANT HISTORY OF 
THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON 



Edited with Critical Essay and 
Notes by Charles Mills Gayley^ 
LL.D.f Professor in the Uni- 
versity of California. 



CRITICAL ESSAY 

The Facts of Porter's Life. — The Two Angry Women of Abington is 
the only extant production of Henry Porter. In 1841 Mr. Collier, who was 
then editing Henslowe's Diary y supplied Mr. Dyce with what purported to 
be all the materials in that journal relative to this dramatist ; and these, with 
the exception of one of August 23, 1597, connecting him with Nashe, which 
has been shown to be a forgery, are copied from Dyce's Percy Society edition 
of the Two Angrie Women by Mr. H. Ellis for the preface to the Mermaid 
edition of the play. The statement is there made that "the foregoing extracts 
— extending over the brief period of a single year . . . contain all the definite 
information which has reached us concerning Henry Porter." An examina- 
tion of Collier's Henslow^e's Diary will show, however, that Mr. Ellis omits 
about a dozen entries ^ affecting our poet which, though inaccessible to Dyce 
in 1 841, have been available since 1845, A complete list of such notices 
in their chronological order has not been set before the public. I, therefore, 
subjoin the following, inserting an additional memorandum (No. 8) of January 
17, 1598—9, from another source, and eliminating the suspicious Henslowe 
entries which Mr. George F. Warner ^ has branded as Collier forgeries. 
The references are to the first volume of the Diary. 

Dd unto M"" Porter, the 16 of desembr 1596 v^'_ 

Lent unto M^ Porter, the 7 of march 1597 

Lent unto the Company, the 30 of maye 1598, to bye a boocke called love 
prevented, the some of fower powndes, dd to Thomas Dowton. 

M"^ Porter 3 

4. P. 126. Lent unto Cheattell, the 26 of June 1598, in earnest of a boocke called 

the 2 pte of blacke Battman of the north 5 and M"^ Harey Porter hath \^^^ 
geven me his worde for the performance of the same, and allso for my 
money 

5. P. 131. Lent unto the company, the 18 of Aguste 1598, to bye a Boocke called "| 

hoote anger sone cowld of M"" Porter, M"^ cheattell, and bengemen lvjl> 
Johnson, in fulle payment, the some of J 

1 Nos. I, 2, 4, 7, 9, 10, II, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 20, 22. 

2 Catalogue of the MSS. and Muniments of Alley n s College of God's Gift at Dulivicbj 
Lond. : 1881, pp. 157-162. See also H. B. Wheatley, John Payne Collier; Lond. : 1884, 
p. 61. 

^ Collier says this name was added **in a different hand to indicate " the author. 



I. 


P. 


77. 


2. 


P. 


77- 


3- 


P. 


124. 



re) 
1, Uxli 



5 1 6 Henry Porter 

6. P. 141. Lent unto thomas Dowton, the 22 of desembr 1598, to bye a boocke ") .. 

of harey Poorter called the 2 pte of the 2 angrey wemen of abengton / 

7. P. 144. Lent unto harey Porter, the 17 of Janewary, 1598 [-9] at the request \ § 

of Richard AUeyn and W" Birde the some of ]^ 

8. An acknowledgment of the transaction (No. 7) in the Bodleian. See note prefixed to 

Malone's copy (Malone, 184): as follows, 
** An acknowledgement of a debt of 20 i. owing to Philip Henslowe, dated Jan. 17th, 
1 598 [-9], and bearing the autograph signature of Henry Porter, formerly lying loose in this 
volume is now to be found in MS. Eng. Hist. C. 4, fol. 15. (Signed) W. H. A., June 8, 1885." 

9. P. 143. Lent unto Thomas Dowton, the 31 of Janewary i598[-9], to bye 

tafetie for ij womones gownes, for the ij angrey wemen of abengton, 
the some of 

10. P. 145. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 12 of febreary 1598 [-9], to paye "J 

M"" Poorter, in fulle payment for his boocke called the 2 pte of the >■ ij' 
angry wemen of abington, the some of J 

11. P. 145. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 12 of febreary 1598 [-9], to bye" 

divers thinges for the playe called the 2 pte of the angrey wemen of \ ij" 
abington 

12. P. 146. Lent unto harey porter, at the Requeste of the company, in earneste of^ 

his boocke called ij mery wemen of abenton the sume of forty 
sheUings ; an*^ for the Resayte of that money he gave me his fayth- 
full promysse that I shold have all the boockes which he writte, 
ether him selfe or with any other, which some was dd the 28 of 

febreary, 1598 [-9]. I saye 

Thomas Downton, Robert Shawe ^ 

13. P. 146. Lent unto Harey Cheattell, the 4 of marche 1598 [-9], in earneste of' 

his boocke, which harey Porter and he is a writinge, the some of, 
called the Spencers ^ 

14. P. 146. Lent unto Robart Shawe, the 22 of marche 1598 [-9], to paye unto 

M'' porter, in full paymente of his playe called the Spensers the 
some of 

15. P. 147. Lent unto Harey Porter, at the apoyntment of Thomas Downton, the 

7 of aprell 1599, the some of 

16. P. 151. [A note for the same in Porter's handwriting] — Borrowed of phillip 

Henchlowe, xx^, the vijth of Aprill, anno. dom. 1599. (Signed) 

Henry Porter 

17. P. 148. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 9 of Aprell 1599, to bye dyvers^j 

thinges, as 4 clothe clockes, and macke up a womones gowne, the \ x * 
some of — For the Spencers J 

18. P. 94.2 Lent Harey Porter, the 11 of aprill 1599 the some of ij^ vj*^ 

19. P. 148. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 14 of Aprell 1599, to macke divers') ,• 

thinges for the playe of the Spencers, the some of 

20. P. 148. Delyvered unto Thomas Downton boye, Thomas parsones, to bye divers" 

thinges for the playe of the Spencers, the 16 of aprell 1599, the 
some of 3 

1 "Witnesses. 

2 Nos. 18, 21, 23, 24 are consecutive on p. 94, and in Henslowe's writing, but with 
Porter's signature after 24. 

3 After this follows an item, p. 149, to the effect that the "boocke of the spencers" had 
helped Chettle to pay off *'x^ of a debt with the companye. " 



Us 
li 



} 



Henry Porter 517 

21. p. 94. Lent Harey Porter, the i6 of aprell, 1599, the some of ... . xijd 

22. P. 261. Harey Porter tocke a somsete of me, Phillipe Henslowe, the 16 of 

Aprell 1599, upon this condition, that yf I would geve him xij^ at 
that instant, for that xijd j^g bound hime seallfe unto me in x^i of 
corant Inglishe mony, for this cawse to paye unto me the next daye 
folowinge all the money which he oweth unto me, or els to ferfette 
for that xijd tenn powndes ; which deate wase unto me xxv^, which 
he hath not payd acordinge to his bonde, and so hath forfetted unto 
me : wittnes to this a sumsette, 

John Haslett, Va[ul]ter 
M"* Kyngman, the Elder. 

[This entry which seems to refer to No. 2i, would naturally be made on the i8th of April, 
1599, but in the Diary it occurs at the end of a confused sequence running March 25, 1598, 
November 16, 1599, August 9, 1598, September 18, 1602, September 19, 1602. Between 
it and the next entry, undated but probably of February, 1 601-2, leaves are missing or mutilated. 
According to Dyce, whose information came from Collier, the entry on p. 94 "is struck 
through, the money having been repaid." But Collier does not record the payment of the xijd 
in his edition of the Diary, nor, according to p. 261, was Porter released from the "deate of 
xxvs " or the *' forfette of xli. "] 

23. P. 94. Lent Harey Porter, the 5 of may 1599 the some of ijs 6d 

24. P. 94. Lent Harey Porter, the 15 of maye 1599, '^^ some of .... ijs 6^ 

(Signed) Henry Porter 

25. P. 94. Be it knowne unto all men, that I, Henry Porter, do owe unto Phillip 

Henchlowe the some of x^, of lawfull money of England, wch I did 
borrowe of hym the 26 of maye, a° dom. 1599. 

Henry Porter! 

Other Early Notices. — Meres, in the Palladis Tamia, 1598, names 
our dramatist as one of the best for comedy among us, and places him in 
good company : Lyly, Lodge, Gascoigne, Greene, Shakespeare, Nashe, 
Thomas Heywood, Munday, Chapman, Wilson, Hathaway, and Chettle. 
It is perhaps worthy of remark that, beginning with Nashe, all these play- 
wrights were at the time Porter's associates in the employ of Henslowe and the 
Admiral's company, and that in this list our poet rubs shoulders with Chap- 
man and Wilson. Much less flattering are the references in Richard West's 
Court of Conscience or Dick Whipper* s Sessions, 1607,^ to *' ruffianly Dick 
Coomes " (Poem to Prophane Swearers^ and ** Nimble-tongued Nicholas 
as the Proverbe saith " (Address to Liers^y which are undoubtedly allusions 
to our play ^: for although Porter's Nicholas is not a liar, his Coomes is, 
in the extreme, ruffianly and profane. The context of The Court of Con- 
science would indicate, however, that West was availing himself, to some 
extent, of nicknames proverbial among the vulgar, such as Suckblood, Tom 

1 The whole of this acknowledgment is in Porter's handwriting. 

2 British Museum, C. 39, b. 21. » Heber (Bibl. Heber), Pt. IV., No. 2872, in B. M. 



5 1 8 Henry Porter 

Taylor, Money Monger, and Nicholas Nevvfangle. That Porter's play was 
still in circulation as late as 1661 is shown by its inclusion in Kirkman's 
Catalogue of that date. 

Conjectural Identity. — Malone, Collier, and Dyce give no clue ; in fact 
they do not exhaust the materials in Henslowe. Langbaine mentions only 
the printed play. Hunter, in his Chorus Vatum Anglic a Jior urn ^ says **it 
can hardly be doubted that this is the same Henry Porter of Christ Church 
who was made Bachelor of Music in July, 1600 (^Alum?i. Oxon. III. 1 182). 
Wood says that he had seen some of his compositions, but thinks none were 
extant when he wrote. This Henry Porter was father of Walter Porter, 
Master of the Choristers at Westminster, who had friends in Sir Edward 
Spencer and Edward Laurence. He was related to Dr. John Wilson." 
Foster in the Alumni OxonienseSy tells us, in addition, that Walter became 
gentleman of the Chapel Royal of Charles I. This information is all traceable 
to Wood's Fastiy^ but Wood does not attempt to identify Henry Porter 
the dramatist with Henry Porter the musical composer. Of the latter we 
learn, from the Register of the University of Oxford,^ that he had studied 
music for twelve years and had ** composed" before he took his degree, 
July 4, 1600. There is no record of a degree in arts, nor of matriculation, 
at Christ Church ; this musical activity would seem, however, to have 
occupied the career of the future bachelor of music from a date eight years 
before Porter the dramatist appeared in Henslowe' s employ to a date after 
our poet had borrowed his last half-crown from that employer. ** The 
statutable conditions for the degree of Mus. Bac." at that time, say Boase 
and Clark,'* *' were that the candidate should have been seven years in re 
musicdy and that he should compose and cause to be sung in the university 
a ccnticum quinque partium, giving three days' notice of the performance of 
this exercise." That a student Hke Porter of Christ Church, who had 
proceeded leisurely through his course in music, taking twelve years instead 
of the seven prescribed, and who, meanwhile, was composing canticles on 
elevated and, probably, sacred themes, should be a man of maturity and 
acknowledged worth is only natural to suppose. And such was the esteem 
in which Porter of Christ Church was held by an Oxford undergradu- 
ate of that day, who addresses him in the following verses, published in 
1599:^ — 



1 British Museum : Add. MS., 24487-92, Vol. II. 302. 2 pasti^ I. 284. 

3 Boase and Clark, Vol. II., Pt. i, p. 147. * As above, p. 145. 

^ Douce, in a note in the unique copy in the Bodleian, says that according to the date of 
the print by Cecill, Weever was twenty-three in 1599. The epigram in which Weever says 
that he is not yet twenty may therefore have been written as early as 1596. 



Henry Porter 5 1 9 



**AD HENRICUM PORTER 

Porter I durst not mell with sacred writ, 

Nor woe the mistris fore I win the maide ; 

For my yong yeres are taskt ; its yet unfitte, 

For youth as eld is never halfe so staid. 

Thy selfe which hath the summe of Art and Wit 

Thus much I know unto me would have said ; 
Thy silver bell could not so sweetly sing 
If that too soone thou hadst begun her ring." 

The Porter thus apostrophized by John Weever has set sacred writ to music, 
but only after careful discipline leading to the musical art ; and his wisdom 
has been proved by the result : *« Thy silver bell " of music, says his admirer, 
«* could not so sweetly sing. If that too soon thou hadst begun her ring." 
Mr. Havelock ElUs,^ to whom these verses were communicated by Mr. 
Bullen, understands them to refer to Porter the dramatist, and concludes 
therefrom, that he was ** at the period of his dramatic activity a man of 
mature age." 

But there is nothing in Weever' s verses applicable to the dramatist as we 
know that personage : his extant play is anything but sacred, it presents no 
particular evidence of mature authorship, betrays no interest in musical affairs, 
yields no bell-tones of style or verse. While Weever was writing his 
Epigrams 1596 to 1599, the dramatist was pursuing anything but a staid 
and silvern course at the Rose Theatre on the Bankside. The slowly matured 
composer of canticles, on the other hand, was completing a leisurely disciphne 
at Christ Church, and to such a student Weever's eulogy admirably apphes. 
In all probability the composer stuck to his metier. He was of a musical 
family : his son obtained recognition from Court for his musical attainments ; 
and a kinsman. Dr. John Wilson, - a very eminem musician of whom^ there 
is a long notice in Wood," was professor of music at Oxford in 1656. 

The familiarity with Oxford and its surroundings displayed m the drama 
of the two angry women who meet in the neighboring village of Abmgton is, 
however, indicative of Oxonian authorship, and we are again driven to the 
registers of the university in search of some available Henry Porter. 1 here 
is, I find, but one capable, in point of chronology, of fulfilling the conditions : 

'* Matriculations : 19 June, 1589, Brazenose, Porter, Henry; 
Lond.,^^7/. /. 16."'' 

1 Mermaid Series, Porter, p. 90. ,^ xr n a... p„w^r 

2 With this opinion I find that Mr. Bayne agrees, D. N. B. Art., I'orter. 

3 Hunter, II, 300, and Hist. Reg. Uni-v. Oxford, 1888. 

4 Boase and Clark, Vol. II., Pt. 2, p. i?©- 



520 Henry Porter 

Concerning the academic career of this Henry Porter there is no informa- 
tion to be gathered from the records of university or college — why he was 
not admitted B.A., or why or when he left his college. I am apprised, 
however, by Mr. C. B. Heberden, the Principal of Brasenose, who at my 
request kindly instituted the requisite search, that such absence of informa- 
tion is not unusual, for the College Register was very imperfectly kept in the 
sixteenth century. If this was our Henry Porter, the author of the Pleasant 
History of the 2^wo Angry Women y he was born in 1573, the son of a gende- 
man of London, he kept an uneventful term or so at Brasenose, and was 
perhaps still there in 1592 when his future associate in Henslowe's employ, 
John Marston, was matriculated. After his return to London he must have 
taken speedily to play-writing, for he was not more than twenty-three years 
of age when we find him selling his dramas to the Admiral's company for 
distinctly reputable sums. A modest straw in favour of the supposition that 
this was our dramatist is the explicit statement in both editions of our play 
to the effect that its author was Henry Porter, Gent. We have no proof 
that the Porter of Christ Church, who took his only degree after our play was 
printed, had any right in 1599 to sign himself Gentleman. 



Dramatic Career. — Although, as I have said, only one of Porter's 
plays is extant, the entries in Henslowe, and their context, enable us 
to form some conception of his relation to the contemporary drama, 
They indicate that between December 16, 1596, and May 26, 1599, 
he was associated as a writer of plays with the Admiral, the Earl of 
Nottingham's company of actors, and that after February 28, 1599, 
his services were pledged to that company alone. It is possible that 
he had also acquaintance among the Earl of Pembroke's men, who 
were acting at The Rose for a short time during October and No- 
vember, 1597, ^" partnership with the Admiral's company; but of 
this we cannot be certain, for we have no record of Porter's actions 
between March 7, 1597, ^"^ May 30 of the ensuing year. 

The payment of December 16, 1596, is not in loan nor "in 
earnest of a boocke," but delivered as for a play then completed; 
and the sum, even if it were not a final instalment, would in itself 
indicate a play of some promise, for £t or £'] was as much as 
Henslowe usually gave for a production even by an author already 
distinguished. If the payment was for a completed " boocke," the 
play would, according to the procedure of the Admiral's men, have 



Henry Porter 5 2 1 

been ready for presentation within a period of ten days to six weeks 
after the date of purchase. The following were the new plays pre- 
sented by this company during that period : That Will Be Shall Be^ 
December 30, 1596; Alexander and Lodowick^ January 14, and 
Woman Hard to Please^ January 27, 1597. Of these Alexander ^-3:^ 
the most successful, and That Will Be next.^ It is possible that 
the third play was the work of Heywood who had been recently 
paid 30 s. — for a " boocke." ^ As to Alexander^ it is mentioned two 
years later as the property of Martin Slater,^ and there is reason to 
conjecture that it was written by him. But, even if these attribu- 
tions were conclusive, we should not he justified in assuming — that 
the book remaining unassigned, That Will Be Shall Be^ was the 
property for which Porter was paid on December 16, 1596. It is 
not, however, impossible that his first production was one of the 
three most popular plays put upon the boards at The Rose that 
season. That Henslowe's loan to Porter on the following March 7 
had any connection with a play of December 16, 1596, is most 
unlikely. Henslowe was not by way of disbursing £() for one 
"boocke." The date is also too remote from May 30, 1598, to 
permit of our connecting this loan with the payment for Love Pre- 
vented^ there mentioned, let alone the objection that if the entries 
of March 7, 1597, ^"^ ^^7 3^' ^59^5 ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ same play, the 
author was paid the unusually high sum of ;^8. But though we 
cannot prove that Porter made much out of Henslowe and the 
Admiral's men, it would seem that they made a good deal out of 
him. For after certain purchases from Porter and during the period 
within which the first performances of his plays must naturally have 
occurred, the theatre receipts increased appreciably. The play of 
May 30, 1598, for instance, would,.according to custom, have been 
presented some time between June 10 and June 30. The only 
other new play that could during those weeks have assisted to swell 
the profits of the theatre was the First Part of Blacke Battman of 
the Norths by distinguished authors, to be sure, but not extant. 

1 Alex, was acted fifteen times during the next six months, That Will Be twelve times. 
The Woman ran for four months and was acted ten times. Alex, brought in almost as much 
as the others combined. 

2 Henslowe, p. 78. Fleay conjecturally identifies it with the Challenge for Beauty. 
* Henslowe, pp. 123, ia8 j May 16, and July 18, 1598. 



522 Henry Porter 

Henslowe's weekly receipts from " my Lord Admerall's mean " 
during the month before June lohad averaged ^^"3 i6j. 3^.; during 
the period between June 10 and June 30 they rose to an average 
of i^ 5 4 ^. \d.\ the week after June 30 they fell again to 
£^ i\ s. 6 d.^ That Porter was at that time held in respect by 
Henslowe is shown by the transaction of June 26, when the crafty 
manager took his surety for the performance of a literary and pecun- 
iary obligation by Chettle, than whom no one could have been 
habitually more in arrears. And that Porter's plays were worth 
having is proved by Henslowe's engaging, in February of the next 
year, everything that he might write, whether in partnership or 
alone. That this appreciation of his plays was shared also by the 
company appears from the unusual sums which they expended for 
the apparel and properties necessary to their presentation.^ 

Of the playwrights at that time attached to the Admiral's com- 
pany, the most intimately associated with Porter would appear to 
have been Chettle ; and, through him, our poet must have been 
brought into close relations with Robert Wilson, who was Chettle's 
colleague in that Second Part of Blacke Battman^ for the completion 
of which Porter went surety, — also with Dekker and Drayton, 
who had assisted in the writing of the First Part, and were, maybe, 
interested in the Second. In fact, Chettle, Dekker, Drayton, Wil- 
son were boon companions in productivity and the ' marshallsey ' : 
to go bail for one of them was presumably to pay for all. With 
Ben Jonson, who was just then coming into notice as a dramatist, 
Henry Porter must have drained many a flagon. In August, 1598, 
these two have just finished writing a play in company with Chettle, 
Hot Anger Soon Cold^ and are paid a fair price for it by Henslowe, 
who seems to regard Porter, however, as the principal author, for he 
enters his name first in the record. But if the returns from this 
play are included in Henslowe's receipts of the next two months, 
it cannot have been more than an ordinarily successful production.^ 

During the latter part of 1598 our dramatist is engaged upon a 
play called by Henslowe the 2 Pte of the 2 angrey women of ahengton. 

1 Henslowe, p. loi. 

2 Tiuo A. IV. A.y Pt. II., ;^l8 5i. ; The Spencers, £-^0 lo s. Properties rarely cost 
more than £1$. ^ Henslowe, p. 129, August 26, October 28. 



Henry Porter 523 

This was rehearsed during January and February, 1599, and by 
February 12, the day on which final payment was made to Porter, 
;^i I ^ had been expended on properties for the performance. It 
was probably ready for presentation at that time, and its success 
may have assisted the sudden leap in Henslowe's share of the receipts 
from £"] 10^., for the week ending February 18, to ;^I5 3 j., for 
the ten days ending February 29,2 1599. This play paid Porter £-j^ 
a higher figure than Hot Anger had brought. Some two weeks later he 
is under contract to produce a sequel, the ij ?nery wemen of ahenton^ and 
only four days later still, March 1 1, he is engaged in a new partnership 
with Chettle to produce a play entitled The Spencers^ or Despencers^ 
a magnificent and tragic subject perhaps suggested by the reprinting 
of Marlowe's Edward 11. during the preceding year.^ The Spencers 
was finished by the 2 2d of the same month. That it was looked 
upon as a play of great promise appears from the large amounts 
which, as already stated, were expended in its preparation for the 
stage. It was first acted some time after April 14. On the i6th 
Henslowe enters a final small disbursement for properties, of which 
perhaps the need was perceived during the first performance. His 
receipts for the week ending April 15 rise to ^13 7^., four times 
as much as for the week before; while the entry, ^13 16 j., for the 
week next ensuing, during which the play was surely on the stage, 
is, with the exception of those of February 29, already mentioned, 
and of June 3,* the largest that year. Perhaps by April 22 the 
novelty of The Spencers had begun to wear off^, for there is again a 
drop in Henslowe's receipts, to ;^i i 5 j., the week ending April 29.^ 
This partnership with Chettle existed, by the way, in the year when 

1 ;^i8 5^., if we may assume (as Mr. Fleaydoes) that the entries, pp. 143-144, of January 
26 and February i, refer to this play. 2 Sic. : Henslowe, p. 130. 

3 Not the other way around as Collier thinks (Henslowe, p. 146, n.) for Ediv. II. had 
been in print since 1594. 

4 Henslowe, pp. 130, 146. Cf. the advance from ;^ 10 Si.onMayiy, i^()(),to £i(i l^s. 
on June 3, the day after Dekker and Chettle's Agamemnon was licensed and probably first acted ; 
and the advance from £1 145. on October 27, 1599, to ;^8 165., the week ending November 3 
(Henslowe, p. 152), during which the successful S^ John Oldcastell had '*ferste" been played. 

5 But, of course, we cannot with certainty attribute the increase of April 1 6 to The Spencers 
alone. It may have proceeded, in part, from the revival of Alex, and Lodoivick, for the prop- 
erties required by which Henslowe had, on March 31, advanced £^ to Juby. Henslowe had, 
moreover, obtained license during March for the 4 Kynges, Brute Grensbillde^ and *' four other 
plays" (pp. 146, 147). 



524 Henry Porter 

Every Man in his Humour was injcourse of composition, and it ended 
just about a month before ' Bengemen ' passed a rapier through 
Gabriel Spenser in Hoxton Fields. 

Beside the playwrights already mentioned, Porter must have 
known in varying degrees of intimacy Heywood, Haughton, Day, 
Munday, Chapman, Hathaway, and, perhaps, Rankins, who were 
then writing for the company ; also Samuel Rowley and Martin 
Slater, who appear to have been serving as actor-dramatists. With 
the players Downton, Richard Alleyn, Robert Shaw, and the poly- 
onymous William Bird, Porter was associated in various business 
negotiations. Of course he knew the above-mentioned Gabriel 
Spenser, and Henslowe's son-in-law, Edward Alleyn, and the two 
JefFes, and Towne and Singer, and the other active members of the 
company. 

Most of the playwrights in Henslowe's pay lived in hand-to- 
mouth style ; but in art of cozening groats from the manager who 
in turn squeezed angels from the dramatist, none excelled ' Harey * 
Chettle. It is instructive to note that, from the period of close 
intimacy with Chettle, Porter sinks ever deeper in Henslowe's debt. 
On January 17, 1599, he had borrowed a pound of Henslowe. 
He was then, still, in the heyday of his success \ but only six weeks 
later, February 28, we find Henslowe, under cover of a further 
beggarly advance, acquiring a lien on all his productivity. A i^'^ 
days after that the two ' Hareys,' doubtless with a hope of release 
from the moneylender's grip, are sweating out The Spencers for him; 
and Chettle, with or without Porter's knowledge, is borrowing 
another half-sovereign in earnest of its completion. When, on 
March 22, the joint production is finished, the dramatists are paid 
less for it than The Second Part of the Two Angry Women had brought 
to Porter alone; and before it is acted Porter has given his note of 
hand to Henslowe for another pound; and so proceeds the declen- 
sion of 'Harey' Porter. Between December 16, 1596, and 
June 26, 1598, he had been Henslowe's 'Mr. Porter'; as soon as 
he begins to borrow, January 17, 1599, he is 'Harey' with a rare 
reversion to the ancient style ; after April 7 there is no reversion. 
The loans, too, which at first were of a dignified amount, suddenly 
fall to 2 J. 6^. Familiarity has bred as usual; and, by April 16, 



Henry Porter 525 

' Harey/ who at this time owes the manager 25 j., is compelled in 
consideration of i s. to clear his debt on the morrow or forfeit ^10. 
Next day Shylock has him, but for some reason continues to dribble 
out the sixpences until May 26. Then ' Harey ' signs the last 
I. O. U. of which we have record, and drops out of history and 
Henslowe with as little warning as he had entered. 

Date of the Extant Play. — Porter wrote two plays and engaged 
to write a third on the Women of Abington, Of a First Part of the 
Two Angry Women^ there is no record in Henslowe, at least under 
that name. But of the Second Part the entries of December 22, 
1598, and February 12, 1599, make explicit mention; and an 
intervening note of January 31, 1599, which records an outlay for 
the play without specification of the part is by date and position 
evidently a reference to this same Second Part. According to the 
entries of February 12, the sum of ;^2 was on that day expended 
in a concluding purchase of properties for the performance, and an 
equal amount was given to Porter in final payment for the "boocke" 
entitled the 2 pte. of the angry wemen of abington. So closes all 
record of that second part. The payment of £ 2, two weeks later, 
February 28, is the usual advance "in earneste of" a "boocke" 
not yet finished ; but the title of it was the ij mery women of abenton^ 
and it was undoubtedly intended to be a continuation of the general 
theme. There is, however, no record of final payment (of £^ 
or £s) as in other cases, and no proof that the play was com- 
pleted. I have no doubt that the play of which the text is here 
given, The Pleasant History of the Two Angry Women of Abington^ is 
the unrecorded First Part, above mentioned. Our drama was twice 
printed in 1599 "as it was lately playde by . . . the . . . Admirall 
his servants," and it had, in all probability, been in the possession 
of the company for some time before publication ; whereas the 
Second Part was only first acted in that year, and would not, with 
the consent of the company, have been turned over to printers. 
For it was to the player's interest to restrict his dramatic stock-in- 
trade, while it was novel, to the play-house. That the non-extant 
play of December 22, 1598-February 12, 1599, which is explicitly 
called the Second Part, was preceded by The Pleasant History is, 
moreover, confirmed by the title-page of The Pleasant History., which 



I 



526 Henry Porter 

is unconscious of predecessor and sequel alike. By how long a 
period, then, did our play precede the missing Second Part ? The 
words " as it was lately playde " on the title-pages of both editions 
may or may not be advertisement. But there is, at any rate, no 
likelihood that the first performance antedated May 14, 1594, when 
the Admiral's men began their long engagement with Henslowe ; 
nor that it fell between that date and December 16, 1596, for it 
does not appear (nor any name that suggests it) in Henslowe's con- 
secutive list of plays performed by the Admiral's men during that 
period. And since Henslowe observed his method of entry by 
days and plays until November 5, 1597, ^^ Pleasant History would 
have been specified in that part of the diary ^ if the first payment to 
Porter, December 16, 1596, or the loan of the succeeding March 7, 
had been for a play bearing that name. Since there is no mention 
of a Pleasant History of the Tivo Angry Women of Ahington before the 
close of Henslowe's daily register, nor of a First Part of the Two 
Angry Women between that date and December 22, 1598, when 
negotiations are in progress for a Second Part, it would seem that, 
whether our play came into existence before or after Novem- 
ber 5, 1597, ^^ must have first passed under some other name. 
In the former alternative not even the wildest conjecture can iden- 
tify it with any title recorded by Henslowe before March 7, 1597, 
except Woman Hard to Please^ and that is more suitable to the sub- 
ject of Hey wood's Challenge for Beauty than of our Pleasant History. 
It is not until two months after the loan of March 7 — four pounds 
to Porter — that one comes upon the first performance of the only 
play of that period that can at all correspond with the Pleasant His- 
tory. This is the successful but as yet unidentified Comodey ofUmers^ 
for the writing of which Henslowe records no payment, although he 
marks it "new" and makes entries which show that it was acted no 
less than twelve times at his "howsse" between May 11 and 
October 1 1 of that year, and that it supplanted Alexander and That 
Will Be in the favour of the public. It has been held, to be sure, 
that this anonymous Comodey was Every Man in his Humour; but 
that is impossible, for Ben Jonson himself states that Every Man 
was brought out during the next year, 1598, and not by the 

1 pp. 82-91. 



I 



Henry Porter 527 

Admirars, but by the Lord Chamberlain's servants,^ while Henslowe 
includes The {Comodey of) Umers even the year after it had been 
acted by the Admiral's company in his " Note of all such bookes as 
belong to the Stocke [of that same company], and such as I have 
bought since the 3d of Marche, I598."2 Mr. Fleay thinks that 
the Comodey was Chapman's Humerous Dayes M'lrth^ and Dr. Ward 
inclines to accept the conjecture ; but I think that Mr. Fleay's plea 
in favour of Chapman's play will apply as well to Porter's Pleasant 
History^ the subtitle of which advertises " the humorous mirth of 
Dick Coomes and Nicholas Proverbes," while the scenes develop 
"humours," which are much more natural than those of Chapman's 
play, and fall but little short, indeed, of the quality that characterizes 
B. J.'s Every Man in his Humour. As far as plot goes I cannot for 
a moment believe that the ineptitudes of the Humerous Dayes Mirth 
can have commanded the popularity which was achieved by the 
Comodey of Umers. 

If, however, according to the latter alternative, the Pleasant History 
came into existence between November 5, 1597, ^^^ December 22, 
1598, the attempt to identify it with the Comodey of Umers falls to 
the ground. But another possibility at once presents itself: for 
the only mention by Henslowe of a play produced in the interim by 
Porter alone is of " a boocke called Love Prevented.'' ^ For this a 
payment of £^ is made on May 30, 1598 ; and until Love Prevented 
turns up, and turns out to be other than our play, it will be open to 
conjecture whether under this title we have not the earliest record 
of the Pleasant History of the Two Angry Women. For not only is 
this the sole title assigned to Porter alone during the period under 
consideration, it is also a title fairly descriptive of the central move- 
ment of the Pleasant History.'^ The date of payment, moreover, 
would accord with the assertion of recent performance which appears 
upon the title-page of our play as printed; it would also allow for a 
reasonable lapse of time before the publication, which was not by 
license and was probably of a printed copy. If this conjecture be 

1 Title-page of E. M. i. H., edited by B. J., 1616. 2 Diary, p. 276. » p. 124. 

* Notice the resume of the action in the speeches of Goursey and Sir Raph, Sc. xiv., 
11. 277-289, the *' crossing of true love." I am pleased to find that in this conjecture, which 
I had imagined to be new, I have been anticipated by Mr. Fleay, Chron. Engl. Drama. 2, 163. 



528 Henry Porter 

correct, the date of our play is May 30, 1598; and we have an 
explanation, in part, of Henslowe's increased receipts during the 
month following. If, on the other hand, our play be the Comodey 
of IJmers^ the date of its first presentation is May 11, 1597. 
Whether these identifications be correct or not, the play may be 
dated between December 16, 1596, and December 22, 1598, and 
it was probably known to Meres when during the latter year he 
included Porter among the writers of comedy.^ 

Dramatic Qualities : Construction. — Of the plot we may cry with 
Goursey, " Here's adoe about a thing of nothing." Not this, but 
occasional situations and the subconscious qualities of humour and 
verisimilitude lend distinction to the play. The Pleasant History 
has atmosphere and therefore entity. It is a creation. Its charac- 
ters stand out. Porter knew their ways and words before he knew 
their history. He had met them out Cumnor way or Hinksey, 
by Bagley, Abington, and Milton on many a cross-country stroll. 
What basis there was for Mrs. Barnes's jealousy, whether Master 
Barnes had too often gone to Milton " a-hunting or such ordinary 
sports," and, once too often, " chatted with " Mrs. Goursey " all 
day till night," we are not explicitly informed. Nor is the dramatist. 
That Mrs. Goursey has given no cause for offence goes without 
saying. But there is trouble in the air. The wives are angered : 
after a dissension sufficiently prolonged to afford us an insight into 
them and their surroundings, their wrath shall be appeased. How, 
we know not ; nor does the dramatist, but it seems to him natural, 
if not novel, that the son and daughter of these foes should with 
their marriage " bury their parents' strife." That end he pursues, 
carrying all with him except those whom he most would carry. 
When the hour is nigh and we are expectant, and the star-crossed 
lovers have made for Carfax to be wed, they lose each other and 
everybody else in a midsummer night's "cunny greene," where, 
whence, and whither, darkling, the dramatic persons play blind- 
man's buff with the plot till, frustrate of discovery, they despair. 
Then in steps Sir Raph Smith, ex tenehris et machina^ to find the 
heroine, and prophesy solution and "the lanthorne of the day" and 

1 Halliwell-Phillips assigns Palladis Tamia to the early part of 1598, but there are no notes 
in the S. R. to aid us in the investigation, Mr. Fleay assigns it to November, 1598. 



Henry Porter 529 

lend our hopes a fillip, but straight to lose us worse than ever in the 
devious night. Beholders and beheld all now despair. And Porter 
might still be spasmodically rounding his rabbits into the " cunny 
greene " and out again, had not the quarrelsome wives happened 
each on other, and on them in turn their husbands happened, 
who simulating mortal combat succeed at last in terrifying their 
women into peace. Only after the characters most concerned 
have thus by chance taken the solution into their own hands and 
effected the reconciliation, does the peacemaker intended by the 
dramatist drop in with the lost sweetheart on his arm ; and the 
union of the young lovers, which had been designed to promote 
the union of their mothers, proceeds on its own merits, superfluous, 
like the second tail on the proverbial toad. The plot, therefore, 
is not the " thing." Not only does it pursue half a dozen possi- 
bilities, each of which it drops halfway ; it starts another half-dozen, 
which it never pursues. But the auditor, unforewarned, pricks to 
each wild-goose chase in turn. The complication of the angry 
women and the subplot of the lovers, with its pretence of a solution, 
move rapidly through the first, third, sixth, and eighth scenes ; but 
in the second and fourth the farcical element retards the pace; in 
the seventh a new and futile start is made, and in the ninth the 
platt itself slides into a kind of commedia air improviso. From this 
it is rescued at the beginning of Scene xii. by Master Barnes's 
"poHicie." But although his "drift device" is of the utmost 
importance to the audience, I have my doubts whether any hearer 
has caught the hint, and I am sure that to most readers the sham 
combat between the husbands in Scene xiv. comes as something 
impromptu and secondary. Consequently a luxury of anticipation 
has been forfeited. The "pollicie" is in itself a capital ruse 
for curing shrewishness, and it has been frequently used of later 
years, as, for instance, in Gillette's Because She Loved Him So ; but 
in 1597 ^^ ^^^ the additional charm of novelty, and deserved a 
better handling. The situation in Scene vi., where Mrs. 
Goursey snatches and restores her husband's letter, is, conversely, 
well prepared, but lacks all consequent. The marksman draws 
his bow to the top of its bent, then gradually relaxes the ten- 
sion — because he has forgot his arrow. But, though Porter is 



5 3 o Henry Porter 

guilty of imperfect devices, few English comedies, before his time 
can boast of scenes more realistic and humorous than the game at 
tables, the burlesque wooing of Mall at her window, and the comic 
irony of the climax between the disputatious mothers under whose 
beaks the debated chickens are eloping. In fact, with all crudities, 
the plot develops an interesting individuality, for which the author 
does not seem to be at all responsible; none the less interesting if 
" a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard 
from the hip upward, no doublet." 

Portrayal of Character. — When we turn to the " persons " and 
their " humours " we realize the architectonics of the play. There 
is something at once natural and masterly in the ease with which 
Porter introduces the condition of " neighbour amitie," wherewith 
the masters delude themselves, while their spouses blow upon 
the coals of hatred: the hostess, teeming with innuendo, — "mal- 
ice embowelled in her tongue," — the lady of Milton read in 
i^sop's fables, quick to conjecture, and " every day as good as 
Barnes's wife," whether to divert a moral or direct a curse. And 
as the women promise they develop: Mrs. Barnes, a "jealous, 
slandering, spiteful queane " ; Mrs. Goursey, subtler and fairer 
spoken, but incapable of backgammon " if standers by doe talke," 
— patently obedient, but impatient of rebuke, soothing her husband 
with soft words, but, inward, fuming at his " Peace, be quiet, wife " ; 
easily his better, bidding him "grow to the housetop with your anger. 
Sir," and then humouring his pleasure, not because of his "incense- 
ment," but his " health." The opprobrious epithets of Barnes's wife 
Mistress Goursey returns into her teeth ; damns her as " mankind " ; 
takes up the quarrel last and is last to lay it down. In fact, as 
Mistress Goursey is the more independent of the twain, she is also 
historically the more original. Mrs. Barnes, on the other hand, is 
an amalgam of stock shrews, gossips, and jealous wives : a descendant 
of Tom Tyler's more strenuous half, a kinswoman of Dame Chat, a 
Kitely in petticoats, the remote grandmother of Colman's Mrs. Oakly. 

Barnes and Goursey are henpecked husbands of the remordent 
variety. Barnes, the more experienced in domestic infelicity, is 
correspondingly the more given to moral tags and pregnant sentences. 
He sometimes rises almost to poetry, as when he tells his wife : — 



\ 



Henry Porter 5 3 1 

** Rough, wrathful words 
Are bastards got by rashness in the thoughts; ** 

from bathos he is just saved by a sense of the incongruous : " O 
doe not" begs he of the virago whom he styles " sweete,'* 

** O, doe not set the organ of thy voice 
On such a grunting tone of discontent ! 
Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue 
With such mishapen answeres.'* 

It is appropriate that upon him who has given rise to the brief 
unpleasantness by inviting guests without his wife's consent, should 
rest the onus of devising the effective " pollicie " of reconciliation. 

From him Goursey is well differenced. Possessed of a finer 
wife and a quicker temper, when the former, contrary to expectation, 
crosses the latter he well-nigh falls into an apoplexy. Oaths he 
abhors, but in the access of his rage swears horribly and apologizes 
to the Almighty between breaths. 

That the morals of the sons reproduce those of the sires in their 
salad days, I reluctantly suspect. It is the recital of young Frank's 
licentiousness that convinces young Philip that here is just the hus- 
band for Sister Mall. And — considering that Mall is frankly and 
squarely what her mother calls her, a " lustie guts " and " vile girl," 
in fact her mother's daughter, fit to " floute the devill and make 
blush the boldest face of man that ere man saw " a swearing wench 
whose only claim to morals is unmorality — Philip's judgment is 
correct. There is, in my opinion, no coarser-minded girl in Eliza- 
bethan comedy ; and at the same time there obtains no dramatic 
portrayal of the animal more observantly conceived or more 
faithfully executed. That she is, as Mr. Ellis says, less sophisti- 
cated than Congreve's Prue, is not exactly to her credit. Nor 
need I make her out " a wholesome, robust English girl . . . with a 
brave openness, loving and sincere," in order to justify my appre- 
ciation of Porter's skill in creating her. She is, indeed, robust 
and Elizabethan, seventeen and upward ; but within she is a 
mate for Caliban ; no relation to Prue, — rather a link between 
Wapull's Wilful Wanton and Vanbrugh's Hoyden. It is hardly 



532 Henry Porter 

necessary to point out the literary and dramatic affinities of Sir 
Raph and his wife : the buck-hunting squire and the lady tender- 
hearted and " pitous." 

The foregoing are characters of broad outline ; but each has, as 
well, his quirk of conduct, manners, or of style. The jealous wife 
with her " stopt compares " ; " Mistresse Would-Have," who has 
" let restrained fancy lose," and sworn to lead no apes in hell ; her 
brother, a poet at second-hand, and " sick discourser " of his sister's 
wit ; Nan Lawson's lover of " quick invention " and " pleasure- 
aiming mind," — these and others of the major movement are 
as palpably in their " humours " as Mrs. Otter, Doll Common, 
Master Stephen, or Kitely, or Truewit. And when we turn to the 
secondary group we find the " humours " not only advertised upon 
the title-page but specified in the text. Dick Coomes is " humord 
bluntly " to brag and swear and drink and quarrel and talk bawdy. 
" I see, by this dearth of good swords, that dearth of sword-and- 
buckler fight begins to grow out ; I am sorry for it," complains this 
swashbuckler serving-man. With " Sbloud ! " he comes upon the 
stage, and there's little left of God unhallowed when Coomes sub- 
sides beneath his buckler in the dark. " Why, what a swearing 
keeps this drunken asse," exclaims Francis. " Peace, do not marre 
his humour^' Phil replies. "Away, bawdie man," cries Hodge, 
and even the Boy must say, " Here him no more, maister ; he doth 
bedawbe ye with his durty speche." He has a " merrie humour^^ 
too, this Coomes, of punning, and has brought " the apparell of 
his wit . . . into fashion of an honor." A Thraso of the servants' 
hall, he'll outswear any ' Pharaoh's foot ' of a tailor's shop. He 
can dispute precedence with Ancient Pistol as " the foul-mouthedst 
rogue in England "; and when he's in his "quarreling humour^^ not 
Pistol, nor Bobadil, nor the ' humorous ' Nim could swagger to 
Dawson's close or out of a horse-pond with a more humorous grace. 
It is to be noted that, in his first lines, Coomes animadverts upon 
" the humour of those young springals," his masters, who " will 
spend all their fathers' good at gaming " ; also that Philip's serving- 
man has his humour both of manners and of style: "a spruce 
slave," cross-gartered like Malvolio, " a nosegay bound with laces 
in his hat," '^ all proverbes in his speech . . . because he would 



Henry Porter 533 

speak truth," a dramatic Camden or Ray, who quotes Latin withal, 
and is as marked in his "humour" as Coomes and Franke's Boy' 
and Mall and Mrs. Barnes in theirs. 

Place in the History of Comedy. — It would, therefore, be of no 
small importance to determine whether this Pleasant History is 
Henslowe's Comodey of Umers of May ii, 1597; ^^^ ^^ it be, this 
play of characteristics precedes Every Man in his Humour, and' dis- 
putes the " place peculiar to itself in our dramatic literature " which 
most critics have assigned to that masterpiece of Ben Jonson. But 
even if it be not the play of May 1 1, 1597, our <^rama was certainly 
written before December 22, 1598, probably by May 30 of that 
year; and consequently to Porter, as an influential associate of 
Chapman and Jonson, must be given something of the credit of 
blazing the path toward the comedy of characteristic. The fun 
of the play has at once a Chaucerian shrewdness and a something 
of the careless guffaw of W. Wager. Its realism throws back to 
Mak, and Johan, Tom Tyler and Gammer Gurton, As a comedy of 
unadulterated native flavour, breathing rural life and manners and 
the modern spirit, constructed with knowledge of the stage, and 
without affectation or constraint, it has no foregoing analogue except 
perhaps The Pinner of Wakefield. No play preceding or contempo- 
rary yields an easier conversational prose, not even the Merry Wives. 

We must not close this study without remarking certain resem- 
blances to Shakespeare. In the matter of situations and language 
traces of the Romeo and Juliet of 1592, and the Midsummer-Nigh fs 
Dream of 1 594-1 595, appear. The fanciful reader might, indeed, 
suspect something like a good-natured burlesque of the balcony scene 
in the conversation between Frank and Mall "at her window " ; 
perhaps even of the motif of Shakespeare's tragedy, in the loves of 
the children of the inimical wives of Abington : "How, sir? your 
wife ! " says Mrs. Barnes to Francis : — 

*< Wouldst thou my daughter have ? 
He rather have her married to her grave." 

Even so had spoken Lady Capulet. And Romeo seems to be 
muttering in his sleep through Philip's soliloquy : — 



534 Henry Porter 

«' The side . . . 

Is in three houres become an Ethiope , . • 
She will not have one of those pearled starres 
To blab her sable metamorphosis.'* 

If anything further were needed to illustrate Philip's taste in plays, 
it would be furnished by the hazy reminiscence of " the imperial 
votaress" and "the nun, for aye ... in shady cloister mewed." 
Indeed, if Porter did not have in mind the quadrilateral wanderings of 
the Midsummer-Night' s Drearn when Frank and Mall missed the way 
to Carfax, I am much surprised. That Dick Coomes, when he 
stood between his mistress and the angel to be tempted, was not 
thinking of Gobbo, is, of course, possible, but it is not possible 
that Dick Coomes's creator was not familiar with the Merchant 
of Venice. There is also, as I have already implied, a quality in 
Dick's sword-and-buckler voice that rings contemporaneous with 
the Henry IF.^ Pts. I. and 11. To trace a connection between the 
well-known lines of Hamlet in i6o2 and Porter's 

**How loathsome is this beast man's shape to me 
This mould of reason so unreasonable ' ' 

(1597—98), would, I fear, be fanciful. The resemblance, faint as 
it is, may be due to mere coincidence or to derivation from a com- 
mon source. 

Previous Editions and the Present Text. — ■ Two editions of this 
play were published in 1599: one for Joseph Hunt and William 
Ferbrand ; the other for Ferbrand alone (in same place of business). 
From the variations in spelling and text which characterize the 
Ferbrand quarto and are evidently intended for improvements, and 
from the fact that Ferbrand was still alone when, in 1600, he pub- 
lished another play. Look About Tou., I conclude that the edition 
printed during the period of partnership was the earlier of the two. 
It will be indicated in the notes to the present text as Q i. Of Q i 
a copy is to be found in the British Museum (162. d. 55). Of 
Q 2, published by Ferbrand alone, there are two copies in the 
Bodleian, one formerly owned by Malone, the other by Douce. 
Q 2 furnishes the more careful text. That it was made, however, 
not from manuscript, but from Q i, is evidenced by the retention 



Henry Porter 535 

of occasional printers' errors and oddities characteristic of the earlier 
edition. Dyce, in his edition (Dy.) for the Percy Society, 1841, 
followed Q I, with occasional readings from Q 2 and silent 
emendations. This edition, with modernized spelling, is included 
in Hazlitt's Dodsley, Vol. VII. (H.). Mr. Havelock Ellis's edition 
of the play (E.), with acts, scenes, and modernized spelling, for the 
Mermaid Series [Nero and Other Pldys^ 1888), appears to be based 
upon H. The present text is that of Q 2 (Bodl. Malone 184), 
with such substitutes from Q i as are indicated in the footnotes. 

Charles Mills Gayley. 











THE 











PLEASANT 

HISTORY OF 

the two angry women 
of Abington. 

With the humorous mirth of Dicke Coomes 

and Nicholas Prouerbes, two 

Seruingmen. 

As it was lately playde by the right Honorable 

the Earle of Nottingham, Lord high 

Admirall his feruants 

By Henry Porter Gent. 



VIGNETTE 



Imprinted at London for William Ferbrandy 

and are to be folde at his fhop at the corner of 

Colman ftreete neere Loathbury. 

1599. 



The Names of the Speakers^ 



m. goursey. 

Mist. Goursey. ■ 

M. Barnes. ■ 

Mist. Barnes. j 

Franke Goursey. \ 

Phillip [Barnes] j 

Boy. I 

Mall Barnes. \ 
Dick Coomes. 

Hodge. ' 

Nicholas Proverbs. j 

Sir Raph Smith. J 

[Lady Smith.] j 

Will, Sir Raphes man» \ 



1 First in Q a. 



The Prologue 

Gentlemen, I come to yee like one that lackes and would borrow, 
but was loath to aske least hee should be denied : I would aske, but 
I would aske to obtaine ; O would I knewe that manner of asking ! 
To beg were base, and to cooche low and to carry an humble shew 
of entreatie were too dog-like, that fawnes on his maister to get a 
bone from his trencher : out, curre ! I cannot abide it to put on the 
shape and habit of this new worlds new found beggars, mistermed 
souldiers, as thus ; ' Sweet gentlemen, let a poore scholler implore 
and exorate^ that you would make him rich in the possession of a 
mite of your favours, to keep him a true man in wit, and to pay for 
his lodging among the Muses ! so God him helpe, he is driven to a 
most low estate : tis not unknowne what service of words he hath 
been at ; hee lost his lims in a late conflict of floute ; a brave repulse 
and a hot assault it was, he doth protest, as ever he saw since hee 
knewe what the report of a volley of jestes were ; he shall therefore 
desire you* — A plague upon it, each beadle disdained would 
whip him from your companie. Well, gentlemen, I cannot tell 
howe to get your favours better then by desert : then the worse 
lucke, or the worse wit, or some what, for I shall not now deserve 
it. Welcome 2 then, I commit my selfe to my fortunes, and your 
contents ; contented to dye, if your severe judgements shall judge 
me to be stung to death with the adders hisse. 

I Qtos., exerate. 2Qx, 'WeU.* 



539 



The pleasant Comedy of the 

two angry Women of 
Abington 



[Scene First. Abington. Near Master Barneses House: 
The Orchard^l 

Enter Master Goursey and his wife, and Master Barnes and his wife, 
with their two sonnesy and their two servants. 

Maister Goursey. Good maister Barnes, this entertaine of yours, 
So full of courtesie and rich delight, 
Makes me misdoubt my poore ability 
In quittance of this friendly courtesie. 

M. Bar. O master Goursey, neighbour amitie 5 

Is such a Jewell of high reckoned worth. 
As for the attaine of it what would not I 
Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts ! 

M. Gou. Kinde sir, neere dwelling amity indeed 
Offers the hearts enquiry better view 10 

Then love thats seated in a farther soyle : 
As prospectives ^ the ^ neerer that they be 
Yeeld better judgement to the judging eye ; 
Thinges seene farre off are lessened in the eye. 
When their true shape is seene being hard by. 15 

1 E., Act I. Sc. I. No division into acts and scenes in Qtos. 

2 Prospects, views. Dyce. ^2 '> ^^' 

541 



542 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. ; 

M. Bar. True, sir, tis so ; and truely I esteeme | 

Meere^ amity, familiar neighbourhood, j 

The cousen germaine unto wedded love. ' j 

M. Gou. 1,2 sir, thers surely some aliance twixt them, \ 

For they have both the off-spring from the heart : 20 

Within the hearts bloud ocean still are found • 

Jewels of amity and jemmes of love. i 

M. Bar. I, master Goursey, I have in my time j 

Seene many shipwracks of true honesty \ \ 

But incident such dangers ever are 25 | 

To them that without compass sayle so farre : 

Why, what need men to swim when they may wade ? ■ 

But leave this talke, enough of this is said : ; 

And, master Goursey, in good faith, sir, wellcome ; — ; 

And, mistresse Goursey, I am much in debt 30 j 

Unto your kindnes that would visit me. 

Mi. Gou. O master Barnes, you put me but in minde 
Of that which I should say ; tis we that are > 

Indebted to your kindness for this cheere : 

Which debt that we may repay, I pray lets have 35 ; 

Sometimes your company at our homely house. ■ 

Mi. Bar. That, mistresse Goursey, you shall surely have ; ; 

Heele^ be a bolde guest I warrant ye, \ 

And boulder too with you then I would have him. 1 

Mis. Gou. How doe ye meane he will be bolde with me ? 40 j 

Mi. Bar. Why, he will trouble you at home, forsooth, \ 

Often call in, and aske ye how ye doe ; 
And sit and chat with you all day till night. 
And all night too, if he might have his will. 

M. Bar. I, wife, indeed, I thanke her for her kindnes ; 45 

She hath made me much good cheere passing that way. 

Mi. Bar. Passing well done of her ; she is a kinde wench. — 
I thanke ye, mistresse Goursey, for my husband ; 
And if it hap your husband come our way 

1 Absolute, perfect. Dyce. 2 ^y . gg ajgo in 1. 23 et passim. 

^ Dyce suggests for the metre, * He will.' But more probably * Heele ' was a monosyllable, 

and 'bolde' (Q i, 'bould') a dissyllable. According to the editor of the Oxford Glossary 
" bold " is so pronounced at the present day. 



i] angry women of Abington 543 

A hunting or such ordinary sportes, 50 

He do as much for yours as you for mine. 

M. Gou. Pray doe, forsooth. — Gods Lord, what meanes the 
woman ? 
She speakes it scornefuUy : i faith I care not ; 

Things are well spoken, if they be well taken. — \_Jside.'\ 

What, mistresse Barnes, is it not time to part ? 55 

Mis. Bar. Whats a clocke, sirra ? 

Nicholas. Tis but new strucke one. 

M. Gou. I have some busines in the towne by three. 

M. Bar. Till then lets walke into the orchard, sir. 
What, can you play at tables ? ^ 60 

M. Gou. Yes, I can. 

M. Bar. What, shall we have a game ? 

M. Gou. And if you please. 

M. Bar. I faith, content ; weele spend an hower so. — 
Sirra, fetch the tables.^ 65 

Nic. I will, sir. Exit. 

Phil. Sirra Franke, whilst they are playing heere, 
Weele to the greene to bowles. 

Fra. Phillip, content. — Coomes, come hyther, sirra : 
When our fathers part, call us upon the greene. — 70 

Phillip, come, a rubber,^ and so leave. 

Phil. Come on. Exeunt [Phillip tf;;^ Francis]. 

Coom. Sbloud, I doe not like the humour of these springals; theil 
spend all their fathers good at gamming. But let them trowle the 
bowles upon the greene; He trowle the bowles in the buttery by 
the leave of God and maister Barnes : and his men be good fellows, 
so it is; if they be not, let them goe snick up.^ Exit. 77 

Enter Nicholas with the tables. 

M. Bar. So, set them downe. — 
Mistresse Goursey, how doe you like this game? 

Mi. Gou. Well, sir. 80 

1 Backgammon ; cf. Shakesp. L. L. L. V., ii. 326. 

2 The audience were to suppose that the stage now represented an orchard ; for be it remem- 
bered that there was no movable painted scenery in the theatres at the time when this play was 
produced. Dyce. ^ Q i, ' rubbers,' as frequently used. * Q i, ' sneik up ' — be hanged. 



544 ^ pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

M. Bar. Can ye play at it ? 

Mis. Gou. A little, sir. 

M. Bar. Faith, so can my wife. 

M. Gou. Why, then, master Barnes, and if you please, 
Our wives shall try the quarrell twixt us two, 85 

And weele looke on. 

M. Bar. I am content. — What, woman,^ will you play } 

Mis. Gou. I care not greatly. 

Mis. Bar. Nor I, but that I thinke sheele play me false. 

M. Gou. He see sh€ shall not. 90 

Mis. Bar. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see. 
You of all men shall not marke her hand ; 
She hath such close conveyance in her play. 

M. Gou. Is she so cunning growne ? Come, come, lets see. 

Mis. Gou. Yea, mistris Barnes, will ye not house your jests, 95 
But let them rome abroad so carelesly ? 
Faith, if your jealious tongue utter another. 

He crosse ye with a jest, and ye were my mother. — \_Aside.'\ 

Come, shall we play ? 

Mis. Bar. I, what shall we play a game ? 100 

Mis. Gou. A pound a game. 

M. Gou. How, wife ? 

Mis. Gou. Faith, husband, not a farthing lesse. 

M. Gou. It is too much ; a shilling were good game. 

Af [/V] . Gou. No, weell be ill huswives once; 105 

You have oft been ill husbands : lets alone. 

M. Bar. Wife, will you play so much ? 

Mis. Bar. I would be loath to be so franke a gaimster 
As mistresse Goursey is ; and yet for once 
He play a pound a game aswell as she. no 

M. Bar. Go to, youle have your will. Offer to goe from them. 

Mis. Bar. Come, ther's my stake. 

Mis. Gou. And ther's mine. 

Mis. Bar. Throw for the dice. Ill luck ! they are yours. 

M. Bar. Master Goursey, who sayes that gamings bad, 115 

1 g I, * women j ' but Barnes is addressing his wife. Dy. refers to 1. 147 ; and to 1. 177, 
where both Qtos. have * woman. ' 



i] angry women of Abington 545 

When such good angels ^ walke twixt every cast ? 

M. Gou. This is not noble sport, but royall play. 

M. Bar. It must be so where royals walke so fast. 

Mis. Bar. Play right, I pray. 

Mi. Gou. Why, so I doe. 120 

Mis. Bar. Where stands your man .? 

Mis. Gou. In his right place. 

Mis. Bar. Good faith, I thinke ye play me foule an ace. 

M. Bar. No, wife, she playes ye true. 

Mis. Bar. Peace, husband, peace; ile not be judged by you. 125 

Mis. Gou. Husband, master Barnes, pray both goe walke; 
We cannot play, if standers by doe talke. 

M. Gou. Well, to your game ; we will not trouble ye. 

[GouRSEY and Barnes] goe from them. 

Mi. Gou. Where stands your man now ? 

Mi. Bar. Doth he not stand right? 130 

Mi. Gou. It stands betweene the pointes. 

Mi. Bar. And thats my spight. 
But yet me thinkes the dice runnes much uneven, 
That I throw but dewes ase and you eleven. 

Mis. Gou. And yet you see that I cast downe the hill. 135 

Mi. Bar. I, I beshrew ye, tis not with my will. 

Mis. Gou. Do ye beshrew me ? 

Mi. Bar. No, I beshrew the dice, 
That turne you up more at once then me at twise. 

Mi. Gou. Well, you shall see them turne for you anon. 140 

Mi. Bar. But I care not for them when your game is done. 

Mi. Gou. My game ! what game ? 

Mi. Bar. Your game, your game at tables. 

Mi. Gou. Well, mistresse, well, I have red i^sops fables. 
And know your morrals meaning well enough. 145 

Mi. Bar. Loe, you'l be angry now ! heres good stufFe. 

^Re-enter Goursey and Barnes.] 

M. Gour. How now, woman ? ^ who hath wonne the game ? 

Mi. Gou. No body yet. 

1 The angel-noble was a gold coin worth from a third to half a sovereign 5 the royal or rose- 
noble, lOi. ^ Q i> 'women.' 



546 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

M. Bar. Your wife's the fairest for't.^ 

Mi, Bar. I, in your eye. 150 

Ml. Gou. How do you meane ? 

Mi. Bar. He holds you fairer for't then I. 

Mi. Gou. For what, forsooth ? 

Mi. Bar. Good gamster, for your game. 

M. Bar. Well, try it out ; t'is all but in the bearing.^ 155 

Mi. Bar. Nay, if it come to bearing, shee'l be best. 

Mi. Gou. Why you'r as good a bearer as the rest. 

Mi. Bar. Nay, thats not so ; you beare one man too many. 

Mi. Gou. Better doe so then beare not any. 

Mi. Ba. Beshrew me, but my wives jestes grow too bitter; 160 
Plainer speeches for her were more [fitjter : ^ 
Malice lyes inbowelled in her tongue. 
And new hatcht hate makes every jest a wrong. \_Aside.~\ 

Mi. Go. Looke ye, mistresse, now I hit yee. 

Mi. Bar. Why, I, you never use to misse a blot,^ 165 

Especially when it stands so faire to hit. 

Mi. Gou. How meane ye, mistresse Barnes ? 

Mi. Ba. That mistresse Course's in the hitting vaine. 

Mi. Gou. I hot* your man. 

Mi. Bar. I, I, my man, my man ; but, had I knowne, 170 

I would have had my man stood neerer home. 

Mi. Gou. Why, had ye kept your man in his right place, 
I should not then have hit him with an ase. 

Mis. Bar. Right, by the Lord ! a plague upon the bones ! 

Mi. Gou. And a hot mischiefe on the curser too! 175 

M. Bar. How now, wife ? 

M. Gour. Why, whats the matter, woman ? 

Mi. Gou. It is no matter : I am 

Mis. Bar. I, you are 

Mi. Gou. What am I ? 1 80 

Mis. Bar. Why, thats as you will be ever. 

Mis. Gou. That's every day as good as Barneses wife. 

Mi. Bar. And better too : then what needs al this trouble ? 
A single horse is worse then that beares double. 

1 Q 2,/ar'r. 2 A term of the game. ^ So Dy. Qtos. better. * hit. 



i] angry women of Abington 547 

M. Bar. Wife, go to, have regard to that you say ; 185 

Let not your words passe foorth the vierge of reason, 
But keep within the bounds of modesty, 
For ill report doth like a baylifFe stand. 
To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue, 

And makes it forfeit into follies hands. 190 

Well, wife, you know tis^ no honest part 
To entertaine such guests with jestes and wronges : 
What will the neighbring country vulgar say. 
When as they heare that you fell out at dinner ? 
Forsooth,^ they'l call it a pot quarrell straight ; 195 

The best they'l name it, is a womans jangling. 
Go too, be rulde, be rulde. 

Mi. Bar. Gods Lord, be rulde, be rulde ! 
What, thinke ye I have such a babies wit. 

To have a rods correction for my tongue ? 200 

Schoole infancie; I am of age to speake. 
And I know when to speake : shall I be chid 
For such a^ 

Mi. Gou. What a ? nay, mistresse, speake it out ; 
I scorne your stopt compares : compare not me 205 

To any but your equals, mistresse Barnes. 

M. Gou. Peace, wife, be quiet. 

M. Bar. O, perswade, perswade ! — 
Wife, mistresse Goursey, shall I winne your thoughts 
To composition of some kind effects ? 210 

Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife, 
And come shake hands with mistresse Goursey heere. 

Mi. Ba. Shall I shake hands ? let her go shake her heeles ; 
She gets nor hands, nor friendship at my hands : 
And so, sir, while I live I will take heed, 215 

What guests I bid againe unto my house. 

M. Bar. Impatient woman, will you be so stiffe 
In this absurdnes ? * 

1 Dyce reads, * it is'; but probably in prov. pron. < know ' was then, as frequently now, 
a dissyllable. ^ Q ^5 Forsoorh. ^ q 2, < for such a ' appended to line 202. 

4 (|2 2, 'in this absurdnes ' appended to line 217. 



548 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Ml. Ba. I am impatient now I speakej 
But, sir, He tell you more another time : 220 

Go too, I will not take it as I have done. Exit. 

Mis. Gou. Nay, she might stay ; I will not long be heere 
To trouble her. Well, maister Barnes, 
I am sorry that it was our happes to day, 

To have our pleasures parted with this fray: 225 

I am sorrie too for all that is amisse. 
Especially that you are moov'de in this. 
But be not so, tis but a womans jarre, 
Their tongues are weapons, words there blowes of warre. 
'Twas but a while we buffeted you saw, 230 

And each of us was willing to withdraw; 
There was no harme nor bloudshed you did see : 
Tush, feare us not, for we shall well agree. 
I take my leave, sir. — Come, kinde harted man, 
That speakes his wife so faire, I, now and than ; 235 

I know you would not for an hundreth pound 
That I should heare your voyces churlish sound ; 
I know you have a farre more milder tune 
Then ' Peace, be quiet, wife '; but I have done. 
Will ye go home ? the doore directs the way ; 240 

But, if you will not, my dutie is to stay. \_Exit.~\ 

M. Bar. Ha, ha ! why, heres a right woman, is there not ? 
They both have din'de, yet see what stomacks they have ! 

M. Gou. Well, maister Barnes, we cannot do with all : ^ 
Let us be friends still. 245 

M. Bar. O, maister Goursey, the mettell of our minds. 
Having the temper of true reason in them, 
Affoordes ^ a better edge of argument 
For the maintaine of our familiar loves 

Then the soft leaden wit of women can ; 250 

Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour love 
I impart ^ my selfe to maister Goursey. 

M. Gou. And with exchange of love I do receive it : 

1 cannot help it withal. ^ Q i) ' Affoorde.' 

3 So (^tos. Dy. suggests ^do impart 'j cf. next line. 



ii] angry women of Abington 549 

Then here weel part, partners of two curst wives. 

M. Ba. Oh, where shall* wee find a man so blest that is not ? ^ 
But come; your businesse and my home affaires 256 

Makes me deliver that unfriendly worde 
Mongst friends — farewell.^ 

M. Gou. Twentie farewels, sir. 

M. Bar. But harke ye, maister Goursey ; 260 

Looke ye perswade at home as I will do : 
What, man ! we must not alwayes have them foes. 

M, Go. If I can helpe it. 

M. Bar. God helpe, God helpe ! 
Women are even untoward creatures still. Exeunt. 265 

[Scene Second. In front of Barneses House.'] 
Enter Philip, Francis, and his Boy, from bowling. 

Phil. Come on, Franke Goursey : you have good lucke to winne 
the game. 

Fran. Why, tell me, ist not good, that never playd before upon 
your greene ? 

Phil. Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crownes ; that makes 
it worse.^ 6 

Fran. Let it not greeve thee, man ; come ore to us ; 
We will devise some game to make you win 
Your money backe againe, sweet Philip. 

Phil. And that shall be ere long, and if I live: 10 

But tell me, Francis, what good horses have yee, 
To hunt this sommer ? 

Fra. Two or three jades, or so. 

Phil. Be they but jades ? 

Fran. No, faith ; my wag string here 15 

Did founder one the last time that he rid, 
The best gray nag that ever I laid my leg over. 

Boy. You meane the flea bitten ? 

1 Note the anapaestic swing. 2 Qtos. append 1. 258 to 1. 257. 

3 Dyce cuts lines 1-6 into a kind of blank verse. 



550 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Fran. Good sir, the same. 

Boy. And was the same the best that ere you rid on ? 20 

Fran. I, was it, sir. 

Boy. I faith, it was not, sir. 

Fran. No ! where had I one so good ? 

Boy. One of my colour, and a better too. I 

Fran. One of your colour ! I nere remember him ; 25 ] 

One of that colour ! 1 

Boy. Or of that complexion. 

Fran. Whats that ye call complexion in a horse ? , 

Bay. The colour, sir. | 

Fran. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will — 30 

Boy. Nay, good sir, hold your hands ! 

Fran. What, shal we have it .? 

Boy. Why, sir, I cannot paint. ; 

Fran. Well, then, I can ; ^ 1 

And I shall find a pensill for ye, sir. 35 

Boy. Then I must finde the table, if you do. 

Fran. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchen ! 

Boy. Looke how you chafe ! you would be angry more. 
If I should tell it you. 

Fran. Go to, lie anger ye, and if you do not. 40 1 

Boy. Why, sir, the horse that I do meane ; 

Hath a leg both straight and cleane. 

That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flawe, i 

But is the best that ever ye saw ; I 

A pretie rising knee, O knee ! 45 

It is as round as round may be ; : 

The full flanke makes the buttock round : \ 

This palfray standeth on no ground : 

When as my maister's on her backe, \ 

If that he once do say but, ticke;^ 50 

And if he pricke her, you shall see 
Her gallop amaine, she is so free ; ; 

1 Qtos. , 11. 33 and 34 as one. \ 

2 Dy., qy. *tacke' ? But, of course, the boy uttered the <tchick' with which one urges \ 
a horse. \ 

\ 



ii] angry women of Abington 551 

And if he give her but a nod, 

She thinkes it is a riding rod ; 

And if hee'l have her softly go, 55 

Then she trips it like a doe ; 

She comes so easie with the raine, 

A twine thred turnes her backe againe; 

And truly I did nere see yet 

A horse play proudlier on the bit : 60 

My maister with good managing 

Brought her first unto the ring \ 1 

He likewise taught her to corvet, 

To runne, and suddainlie to set ; 

Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race, 65 

Nay, shee's apt to every pace ; 

And to proove her colour good, 

A flea, enamourd of her blood, 

Digd for chanels in her neck, 

And there made many a crimson speck: 70 

I thinke theres none that use to ride 

But can her pleasant trot abide ; 

She goes so even upon the way. 

She will not stumble in a day ; 

And when my maister — 75 

Fra. What do I ? 

Boy. Nay, nothing, sir. 

Phil. O, fie, Franke, fie ! 
Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, 

I must needs say j perswade him first to speake, 80 

Then chide him for it! — Tell me, prettie wag. 
Where stands this prawncer, in what inne or stable ? 
Or, hath thy maister put her out to runne, 
Then, in what field, what champion ^ feeds this courser. 
This well paste, bonnie steed that thou so praisest ? 85 

Boy. Faith, sir, I thinke — 

1 Taught her to tread the ring, — to perform various movements in different directions 
within a ring marked out on a piece of ground. Dyce. 

2 champaign. 



552 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Fran. Villaine, what do yee thinke ? 

Boy. I thinke that you, sir, have bene askt by many, 
But yet I never heard that yee tolde any. 

Phil. Well, boy, then I will adde one more to many, 90 

And aske thy maister where this jennet feeds. — 
Come, Franke, tell me, nay, prethie, tell me, Franke, 
My good horse-maister, tell me — by this light, 
I will not steale her from thee ; if I do. 
Let me be held a felone to thy love. 95 

Fran. No, Phillip, no. 

Phil. What, wilt thou we [a] re a point ^ but with one tag? 
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag. 

Enter Comes. 

Com. Swounds, where be these timber turners, these trowle the 
bowles, these greene men, these — lOO 

Fran. What, what, sir ? 

Comes. These bowlers, sir. 

Fra. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers ? 

Coo. Why, I say they cannot be saved. 

Fra. Your reason, sir ? 1 05 

Coo. Because thev throw away their soules at every marke. 

Fra. Their soules ! how meane ve ? 

Phi. Sirra, he meanes the soule ^ of our bowle. 

Fra. Lord, how his wit holdes bias like a bowle ! 

Coo. Well, which is the bias ? IIO 

Fra, This next to you.^ 

Coo. Nav, turne it this way, then the bowle goes true. 

Boy. Rub, rub ! 

Coo. Why rub ? 

Boy. Why, vou overcast the marke, and misse the way. 115 

Coo. Nay, bov, I use to take the fairest of my play. 

Phi. Dicke Coomes, me thinkes thou arf* very pleasant: 
When^ gotst thou this mirrie humor? 

Coo. In vour fathers seller, the merriest place in th' house. 

1 A tagged lace used to attach the hose or breeches to the doublet. Dyce. 

2 sole, or oblate surface. * Q i» *th'art.' 

8 Qtos., 11. no and 1 1 1 as one. ^ Dy,, qy. * Wher.* 



I 



ii] angry women of Abington 553 

Phi. Then you have bene carowsing hard ? 120 

Coo. Yes, faith, 'tis our custome when your fathers men and 
we meete. 

Phi. Thou art very welcome thether, Dicke. 

Coo. By God, I thanke ye, sir, I thanke ye, sir : by God, I have 
a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall 
not a servingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then I will do, 
if you have any quarrell in hand : you shall have the maidenhead of 
my new sword; I paide a quarters wages for't, by Jesus. 128 

Phi. Oh, this meate failer Dicke ! 
How well t'as made the apparell of his wit, 1 30 

And brought it into fashion of an honor ! — 
Prethe,^ Dicke Coomes, but tell me how thou doost ? 

Coo. Faith, sir, like a poore man at service. 

Phi. Or servingman. 

Coo. Indeede, so called by the vulgar. 135 

Phi. Why, where the devill hadst thou that word ? 

Coo. Oh, sir, you have the most eloquenst ale in all the^ world; 
our blunt soyle affoordes none such. 

Fra. Phillip, leave talking with this drunken foole. — Say, sirra, 
where's my father? 140 

Coo. ' Marrie, I thanke ye for my verie good cheere.' — ' O Lord, 
it is not so much worth.' — 'You see I am bolde with ye.' — 
' Indeed, you are not so bolde as welcome ; I pray yee, come 
oftner.' — ' Truly, I shall trouble ye.' — All these ceremonies are 
dispatcht betweene them, and they are gone. 145 

Fra. Are they so ? 

Coo. I, before God, are they. 

Fra. And wherefore came not you to call me, then ? 

Coo. Because I was loth to change my game. 

Fra. What game ? 150 

Coo. You were at one sort of bowles, as I was at another. 

Phi. Sirra, he meanes the buttery bowles of beere. 

Coo. By God, sir, we tickled it. 

Fra. Why, what a swearing keepes this drunken asse ! — 
Canst thou not say but sweare at every word ? 155 

1 2 2, pbetbe. ^ Q I, 'in the.' 



554 ^ pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Phi. Peace, do not marre his humour, prethie, Franke. 

Coo, Let him alone ; hee's a springall, he knowes not what 
belongs to an oath. 

Fra. Sirra, be quiet, or I doe protest — 

Coo. Come, come, what doe you protest? l6o 

Fra. By heaven, to crack your crowne. 

Coo. To crack my crowne ! I lay ye a crowne of that, 
Lay it downe, and ye dare ; 
Nay, sbloud, ile venter a quarters wages of that. 
Crack my crowne, quotha ! ^ 1 65 

Fra. Will 2 ye not yet be quiet ? will ye urge me ? 

Coo. Urge yee, with a pox ! who urges ye ? 
You might have said so much to a clowne. 
Or one that had not been ore the sea to see fashions : 
I have, I tell ye true ; and I know what belongs to a man. 170 

Crack my crowne, and ye can. 

Fra. And I can, ye rascall ! \_Offer5 to beat hi?n.~\ 

Phi. Hold, haire braine, holde ! dost thou not see hees drunke ? 

Coo. Nay, let him come : 
Though he be my masters sonne, I am my masters man, 175 

And a man is a man in any ground of England. 
Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death : 
I will not budge an inche, no, sbloud, will I ^ not. 

Fran. Will ye not ? 

Phi. Stay, prithie, Franke. — Coomes, dost thou heare ? 180 

Coo. Heare me no heares : 
Stand away, Ile trust none of you all. 
If I have mv backe against a cart wheele, 
I would not care if the devill came. 

Phi. Why, ye foole, I am your friend. 1 85 

Coo. Foole on your face ! I have a wife. 

Fra. Shees a whore, then. 

Coo. Shees as honest as Nan Lawson. 

Phi. What she ? 

Coo. One of his whores. 1 90 

1 11. 162-165, ^^7-^7^} 174-176, 181-184, printed as verse in the originals, 
2Q 2, ff^ir/. 8 Not in Q I. 



II] angry women of Abington 555 

Phi. Why, hath he so many ? 

Coo, I, as many as there be churches in London. 

Phil. Why, thats a hundred and nine. 

Boy. Faith, he lyes a hundred. 

Phi. Then thou art a witnes to nine. loc 

Boy. No, by God, He be witnes to none. 

Coo. Now doe I stand hke the George ^ at Colbrooke. 

Boy. No, thou standst like the Bull ^ at S. Albones. 

Coo. Boy, ye lye the hornes.^ 

Boy. The bul's bitten ; see how he buts ! 200 

Phil. Comes, Comes, put up,^ my friend and thou art friends. 

Coo. lie heare him say so first. 

Phil. Franke, prethie doe ; be friends, and tell him so. 

Fra. Goe to, I am. 

Boy. Put up, sir, and ye be a man, put up. 205 

Coom. I am easily perswaded, boye. 

Phil. Ah, ye mad slave ! 

Coomes. Come, come, a couple of whore-masters I found yee, 
and so I leave yee. Exit. 

Phil. Loe, Franke, doost thou not see hees drunke, 210 

That twits thee * with thy disposition \ 

Fra. What disposition ? 

Phil. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson. 

Fran. Nay, then — 

Phil. Goe to, ye wag, tis well : 215 

If ever yee get a wife, i faith He tell. 
Sirra, at home we have a servingman ; 
Hees^ not humord bluntly as Coomes is, 
Yet his condition ^ makes me often merrie : 

He tell thee, sirra, hees a fine neate fellow, 220 

A spruce slave ; I warrant ye, heele <" have 
His cruell ^ garters crosse about the knee, 

1 Names of taverns. Ellis. 

2 H. and E., "yee lye — the Homes," as if a tavern name. But Qtos., as above, — 
"You are lying about the horns, I have none." 

3 your sword. 6 quality, humour. 

* So Dyce. Qtos,, wze, — my. ' Dy. suggests ' he will.' 

^ Dy. suggests * He is ' ; but qy. * Coo-ums '? ^ crewel. 



1 

556 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

His woollen hose as white as the driven snowe, 

His shooes dry leather neat, and tyed with red ribbins, j 

A nose-gay bound with laces in his hat, - 225 \ 

Bridelaces, sir, in's hat — an all greene hat,^ j 

Greene coverlet for such a grasse greene wit. i 

' The goose that graseth on the greene,' quoth he, I 

' May I eate on when you shall buried be ! ' 

All proverbes is his speech, hee's proverbs all. 230 ' 

Fra. Why speakes he proverbs ? I 

Phi. Because he would speake truth, 
And proverbes, youle confesse, are olde said sooth. 

Fra. I like this well, and one day He see him : 1 

But shall we part ? 235 1 

Phil. Not yet. He bring you somewhat on your way, 

And as we goe, betweene your boy and you I 

He know where that [brave] ^ praunser stands at levery. , 

Fra. Come, come, you shall not. \ 

Phil. I faith, I wil. Exeunt, 240 ' 

[Scene Third. ^ Barneses Garden^ . 

Enter Master Barnes and his Wife. 

M. Bar. Wife, in my minde to day you were too blame, j 

Although my patience did not blame ye for it : \ 

Me thought the rules of love and neighbourhood | 

Did not direct your thoughts; all indirect* 1 

Were your proceedings in the entertaine 5 I 

Of them that I invited to my house. 
Nay, stay, I doe not chide, but counsell, wife. 
And in the mildest manner that I may : 
You neede not viewe me with a servants eye, 

Whose vassaile^ sences tremble at the looke 10 

Of his displeased master. O my wife, 

1 The originals run, '* Bridelaces sir his hat, and all greene hat"; so Dyce. Ellis, silently, 
"Bridelaces, sir — and his hat all green." It may have been written, ** Bridelaces, sir. His 
hat.? — an all," etc. Coomes parades his wedding trophies. 

2 So Dy. from Q i ; but not in Q 2. 

3 E., Act II. Sc. I, 4 H. and E., 'indiscreet.' * So Dy. ; Qtos., 'vassailes.' 



Ill] angry women of Abington 557 

You are my selfe ! when selfe sees fault in selfe, 

Selfe is sinne obstinate, if selfe amend not : 

Indeede, I sawe a fault in thee my selfe, 

And it hath set a foyle upon thy fame, I5 

Not as the foile doth grace the diamond. 

Mi. Bar. What fault, sir, did you see in me to day ? 

M. Bar. O, doe not set the organ of thy voice 
On such a grunting key of discontent ! 

Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue 20 

With such mishapen answeres. Rough wrathful! words 
Are bastards got by rashnes in the thoughts : 
Faire demeanors are vertues nuptiall babes. 
The ofF-spring of the well instructed soule ; 

O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife ! 25 

So seeme not barren of good courtesie. 

Ml. Bar. So \ have ye done ? 

M. Bar. I, and I had done well. 
If you would do what I advise for well. 

Mi. Bar. Whats that ? 30 

M. Bar. Which is, that you would be good friendes 
With mistresse Goursey. ^ 

Mi. Bar. With mistresse Goursey ! 

M. Bar. I, sweet wife. 

Mis. Bar. Not so, sweet husband. 35 

M. Bar. Could you but shew me any grounded cause. 

Mis. Bar. The grounded cause I ground because I wil not. 

M. Bar. Your will hath little reason, then, I thinke. 

Mi. Bar. Yes, sir, my^ reason equalleth my will. 

M. Bar. Lets heare your reason, for your will is great. 40 

Mi. Bar. Why, for I will not. 

M. Bar. Is all your reason ' for I will not,' wife ? 
Now, by my soule, I held yee for more wise, 
Discreete, and of more temperature in sence, 

Then in a sullen humour to affect^ 45 

That womans* will bojne, common, scholler phrase: 
Oft have I heard a timely married girle, 

1 U. 31 and 32 as one in gtos. 2 g 2, me. 3 g 2, effect. * Q i» <womens.* 



558 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

That newly left to call her mother mam, 

Her father dad, but yesterday come from 

' Thats my good girle, God send thee a good husband ! ' 50 

And now being taught to speake the name of husband, 

Will, when she would be wanton in her will, 

If her husband aske her why, say ' for I will.' 

Have I chid men for ^ unmanly choyse. 

That would not fit their yeares ? have I scene thee 55 

Pupell 2 such greene yong things, and with thy counsell 

Tutor their wits ? and art thou now infected 

With this disease of imperfection ? 

I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame. 

Mi. Bar. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so! 60 

M. Bar. O black mouth'd rage, thy breath is boysterous, 
And thou makst vertue shake at this high storme ! 
Shees ^ of good report; I know thou knowst it. 

Ml. Bar. She is not, nor I know not, but I know 
That thou dost love her, therefore thinkst her so ; 65 

Thou bearst with her, because she beares with thee. 
Thou mayst be ashamed to stand in her defence : 
She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man 
To stand in her defence against thy wife. 

If I catch her in my walke, now, by Cockes * bones, 70 

He scratch out both her eyes. 

M. Bar. O God ! 

Mi. Bar. Nay, never say ' O God ' for the matter : 
Thou art the cause ; thou badst her to my house, 
Onely to bleare the eyes of Goursey, didst not ? 75 

But I wil send him word, I warrant thee. 
And ere I sleepe to[o] ; trust upon it, sir. Exit. 

M. Bar. Me thinkes this is a mighty fault in her; 
I could be angry with her : O, if I be so, 

I shall but put a linke unto a torche, 80 

And so give greater light to see her fault. 
He rather smother it in melancholly : 
Nay, wisedome bids me shunne that passion; 

^ 2y- *ford;«.' Dyce. 2 discipline, 3 Rgaj^ for the metre, ' She is. * Dyce. * God's. 



Ill] angry women of Abington 559 

Then I will studie for a remedy. 

I have a daughter, — now, heaven invocate, 85 

She be not of like spirit as her mother ! 

If so, sheel be a plague unto her husband, 

If that he be not patient and discreet, 

For that I hold the ease of all such trouble. 

Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, 90 

For I would see how she could demeane her selfe 

In that estate ; it may be, ill enough, — 

And, so God shall help me, well remembred now ! 

Franke Goursey is his fathers Sonne and heyre, 

A youth that in my heart I have good hope on ; 95 

My sences say a match, my soule applaudes 

The motion : O, but his lands are great, 

Hee will looke high ; why, I will straine my selfe 

To make her dowry equall with his land. 

Good faith, and twere a match, twould be a meanes 100 

To make their mothers friends. He call my daughter, 

To see how shees disposde to marriage. — 

Mall, where are yee ? 

E7iter Mall. 

Mall. Father, heere I am. 

M. Bar. Where is your mother? 105 

Mai. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she 
Went walking both together to the garden. 

M. Ba, Dost thou heare me, girle ? I must dispute with thee. 

Mai. Father, the question, then, must not be hard. 
For I am very weake in argument. 1 10 

M. Bar. Well, this it is ; I say tis good to marry. 

Mai. And this say I, tis not good to marry. 

M. Bar. Were it not good, then all men would not marry ; 
But now they doe. 

Mai. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry. 115 

M. Bar. Is it both good and bad ? how can this be .? 

Mai. Why, it is good to them that marry well ; 
To them that marry ill, no greater hell. 

M. Bar. If thou mightst marry well, wouldst thou agree ? 



560 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Mall. I cannot tell j heaven must appoint for me. 120 

M. Bar. Wench, I am studying for thy good, indeed. 

Mall. My hopes and dutie wish your thoughts good speed. 

M. Bar. But tell me, wench, hast thou a minde to marry ? 

Mall. This question is too hard for bashfulnes ; 
And, father, now ye pose my modestie. 125 

I am a maide, and when ye aske me thus, 
I like a maide must blush, looke pale and wan. 
And then looke pale ^ againe ; for we change colour 
As our thoughts change. With true fac'd passion 
Of modest maidenhead I could adorne me, 130 

And to your question make a sober cursie 
And with close dipt civilitie be silent ; 
Or els say 'no, forsooth,' or 'I, forsooth.' 
If I said 'no, forsooth,' I lyed, forsooth : 

To lye upon my selfe were deadly sinne, 135 

Therefore I will speake truth, and shame the divell. 
Father, when first I heard you name a husband, 
At that same very name my spirits quickned. 
Dispaire before had kild them, they were dead : 
Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 140 

I was perswaded I should never marry ; 
And, sitting sowing, thus upon the ground 
I fell in traunce of meditation ; 
But comming to my selfe, 'O Lord,' said I, 

'Shall it be so ? must I unmarryed dye ? ' 145 

And being angry, father, farther said, 
'Now, by saint Anne, I will not dye a maide!' 
Good faith, before I came to this ripe groath, 
I did accuse the labouring time of sloath : 

Me thought the yeere did run but slow about, 150 

For I thought each yeare ten I was without. 
Being foureteene and toward the other ^ yeare, 
Good Lord, thought I, fifteene will nere be heere! 
For I have heard my mother say that then 
Prittie maides were fit for handsome men: 155 

1 Dy. suggests 'red ' j H. and E. adopt. ^ Q i> ' tother yeere.' 



Ill] angry women of Abington 561 

Fifteene past, sixeteene, and seventeene too, 

What, thought I, will not this husband do ? 

Will no man marry me ? have men forsworne 

Such beauty and such youth ? shall youth be worne, 

As rich mens gownes, more with age then use? i6o 

Why, then I let restrained ^ fansie loose. 

And bad it gaze for pleasure ; then love swore me 

To doe what ere my mother did before me ; 

Yet, in good faith, I was^ very loath. 

But now it lyes in you to save my oath : 165 

If I shall have a husband, get him quickly. 

For maides that weares corke^ shooes may step awry. 

M. Bar. Beleeve me, wench, I doe not repprehend * thee, 
But for this pleasant answere do commend thee. 
I must confesse, love doth thee mighty wrong, 170 

But I will see thee have thy right ere long ; 
I know a young man, whom I holde most fit 
To have thee both for living and for wit : 
I will goe write about it presentle. 

MalL Good father, do. \Extt Barnes.] 

O God, me thinkes I should 175 
Wife it as fine as any woman could ! 
I could carry a porte to be obayde. 
Carry a maistering eye upon my maide. 
With 'Minion, do your businesse, or He make yee,' 
And to all house authoritie be take me. 180 

O God, would I were married ! be my troth, 
But if I be not, I sweare He keepe my oath. 

Ent. Mi. Ba. 

\Mi. 5^.] How now, minion, wher have you bin gadding ? 

Mall. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him. 

Mi. Bar. Your father ! and what said he too ye, I pray ? 185 

Mall. Nothing, forsooth. 

Mi. Bar. Nothing ! that cannot be ; something he said. 

1 Q 2, restained. 2 Dy., H., E. 'have beene.' ^ See p. 464/2 (F. B., vii. 74). 

* J^tos. , apprehend^ — but certainly Mall had spoken with sufficient plainness. Dyce. 
20 



562 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Mall. I, somthing that as good as nothing was. 

Ml. Bar. Come, let me heare that somthing nothing, then. 

Mai. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother. 190 

Ml. Bar. A husband ! that was something: but what husband? 

Mall. Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did ! 

Mis. Bar. I, 'would ye did'! i faith, are ye so hasty? 

Mall. Hasty, mother ! why, how olde am I ? 

Mis. Ba. To yong to marry. 

Mai. Nay, by the masse, ye lie. 195 

Mother, how olde were you when you did marry ? 

Mis. Ba. How olde so ere I was, yet you shall tarry. 

Mall. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, harke ! 
The priest forgets that ere he was a clarke : 

When you were at my yeeres. He holde my life, 200 

Your minde was to change maidenhead for wife. 
Pardon me, mother, I am of your minde. 
And, by my troth, I take it but by kinde.^ 

Mis. Bar. Do ye heare, daughter ? you shal stay my leasure. 

Mall. Do you heare, mother ? would you stay fro pleasure 205 
When ye have minde to it ? Go to, there's no wrong 
Like this, to let maides lye alone so long : 
Lying alone they muse but in their beds 
How they might loose their long kept maiden heads. 
This is the cause there is so many scapes, 2lo 

For women that are wise will not lead apes 
In hell : 2 I tel yee, mother, I say true ; — 
Therefore, come, husband, maiden head, adew ! Exit. 

Mis. Bar. Well, lustie guts, I meane to make ye stay, 
And set some rubbes in your mindes smothest way.^ 215 

E7iter Philip. 
Phi. Mother — 

Mi. Ba. How now, sirra, where have ye bin walking ? 
Phil. Over the meades, halfe way to Milton,* mother, 

1 nature. 2 The fate of old maids ; cf. Shakesp. T. of S.W. \. ^ 2 i, nay. 

* Little Milton is about eight miles northeast of Abingdon, across the fields. Great Milton 
is about a mile farther north. 



Ill] angry women of Abington 563 

To beare my friend Franke Goursey company. 

Mi. Ba. Wher's your blew coat,^ your sword and buckler, sir? 
Get you such like habite for a servingman, 221 

If you will waight upon the brat of Goursey. 

Phil. Mother, that you are moov'd, this maks me wonder, 
When I departed I did leave yee friends : 
What undigested jarre hath since betided ? 225 

Mi. Bar. Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy, 
And stifles her with the conceit of it ; 
I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife. 

Phil, By mistresse Goursey ? 

Mi. Bar. Mistresse flurt, yon^ foule strumpet, 230 

Light a love, short heeles ! Mistresse Goursey 
Call her againe, and thou wert better no. 

Phil. O my deare mother,^ have some patience ! 

Mis. Bar. I, sir, have patience, and see your father 
To rifle up the treasure of my love, 235 

And play the spend-thrift upon such an harlot ! 
This same will make me have patience, will it not ? 

Phili. This same is womens most impatience : 
Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say 

That you have found my father temperate, 240 

And ever free from such affections. 

Mi. Bar, I, till* my too much love did glut his thoughts. 
And make him seek for change. 

Phi. O, change your minde ! 
My father beares more cordiall love to you. 245 

Mi. B. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Gourseys wife. 
Not me. 

Phil. Now, I sweare, mother, you are much too blame ; 
I durst be sworne he loves you as his soule. 

1 The common dress of a servingman. Dyce. 

2 J^tos., 'you,' — which, perhaps, is the right reading, some word having dropt out after it 
Qy. thus } — 

" Mh. Bar. Mistresse flurt, you mean^ 
Foule strumpet, light a loue, short heeles ! Mistresse Goursey 
Call her," etc. Dyce. H. and E., <yea.' 

3 Q 2, more. * Q i, tell. 



564 yl pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Mi. Bar. Wilt thou be pampered by affection ? 250 

Will nature teach thee such vilde^ perjurie ? 
Wilt thou be sworne, I, forsworne,'*^ carelesse boy ? 
And if thou swearst, I say he loves me not. 

Phil. He loves ye but too well, I sweare, 
Unlesse ye knew much better how to use him. 255 

Mi. Bar. Doth he so, sir ? thou unnaturall boy ! 
'Too well,' sayest thou ? that word shall cost thee^ somwhat : 
O monstrous ! have I brought thee up to this ? 
' Too well ' ! O unkinde, wicked, and degenerate, 
Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother ? 260 

Well, God will plague thee fort, I warrant thee : 
Out on thee, villaine, fie upon thee, wretch ! 
Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say ! 

Phil. This ayre is pleasant, and doth please me well, 
And here I will stay. 265 

Mi. Bar. Wilt thou, stubborne villaine \ 

Enter M. Bar. 

M. Bar. How now, whats the matter ? 

Mi. Bar. Thou setst thy sonne to scofFe and mocke at me : 
1st not sufficient I am wrongd of thee. 

But he must be an agent to abuse me ? 270 

Must I be subject to my cradle too ? 

God, O God amend it ! [_Exit.~\ 
M. Ba. Why, how now, Phillip ? is this true, my sonne ? 
Phil. Deare father, she is much impatient : 

Nere let that hand assist me in my need, 275 

If I more said then that she thought amisse 
To thinke that you were so licentious given ; 
And thus much more, when she inferd it more, 

1 swore an oath you lov'd her but too well : 

In that as guiltie I do hold my selfe, 280 

Now that I come to more considerate triall : 

I know my fault ; I should have borne with her : 

Blame me for rashnesse, then, not for want of dutie. 

1 vile. 2 Qtos., forlorne. ^ Q ij f^^- 



i 



Ill] angry women of Abington 565 

M. Ba. I do absolve thee ; and come hether, Phillip : 
I have writ a letter unto master Goursey, 285 

And I will tell thee the contents thereof; 
But tell me first, thinkst thou Franke Goursey loves thee ? 

Phil. If that a man devoted to a man, 
Loyall, religious in loves hallowed vowes, 

If that a man that is soule laboursome 290 

To worke his owne thoughts to his friends delight, 
May purchase good opinion with his friend, 
Then I may say, I have done this so well. 
That I may thinke Franke Goursey loves me well. 

M. Ba. Tis well ; and I am much deceived in him, 295 

And if he be not sober, wise, and valliant. 

Phi. I hope my father takes me for thus wise, 
I will not glew my selfe in love to one 
That hath not some desert of vertue in him : 

What ere you thinke of him, beleeve me, father, 300 

He will be answerable to your thoughts 
In any quallity commendable. 

M. Bar. Thou chearst my hopes in him ; and, in good faith, 
Thoust ^ made my love complete unto thy friend : 
Phillip, I love him, and I love him so. 305 

I could afFoorde him a good wife I know. 

Phi. Father, a wife ! 

M. Bar. Phillip, a wife. 

Phil. I lay my life, my sister. 

M. Bar. I, in good faith. 310 

Phil. Then, father, he shall have her ; he shall, I sweare. 

M. Bar. How canst thou say so, knowing not his minde ? 

Phi. All is one for that ; I will goe to him straight. 
Father, if you would seeke this seaven yeares day. 
You could not 2 finde a fitter match for her; 315 

And he shall have her, I sweare he shall ; 
He were as good be hang'd as once deny her. 
I faith. He to him.^ 

M. Bar. Hairebraine, hairebraine, stay ! 

1 (^ I, Tbaust 2 Q 2, «o. ' S ^ appends this to the preceding line. 



566 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

As yet we do not know his fathers^ minde : 320 

Why, what will master Goursey say, my Sonne, 

If we should motion it without his knowledge ? 

Go to, hees a wise and discreet gentleman, 

And that expects ^ from me all honest parts ; 

Nor shall he faile his expectation ; 325 

First I doe meane to make him privy to it : 

Phillip, this letter is to that effe6t. 

Phil. Father, for Gods ^ sake send it quickly, then : 
lie call your man. — What, Hugh ! wheres Hugh, there, ho ? 

M. Bar. Phillip, if this would proove a match, 330 

It were the only meanes that could be found 
To make thy mother frends with Mist[resse] Gou[rsey]. 

Phil. How, a match ! He warrant ye, a match. 
My sister's faire, Franke Goursie he is rich ; 

Her* dowrie too will be sufficient; 335 

Franke's yong,^ and youth is apt to love ; 
And, by my troth, my sisters maiden head 
Standes like a game at tennis, — if the ball 
Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all ! 

Ma. Bar. How now, where's Hugh? 340 

\_Enter Nicholas.] 

Phil. Why, what doth this proverbial with us ? 
Why, where's Hugh ? 

M. Bar. Peace, peace. 

Phil. Where's Hugh, I say ? 

M. Bar. Be not so hasty, Phillip. 345 

Phil. Father, let me alone, 
I doe it but to make my selfe some sport. 
This formall foole, your man, speakes naught but proverbs, 
And speake men what they can to him, hee'l answere 
With some rime,^ rotten sentence, or olde saying, 350 

Such spokes ^ as the ancient of the parish use, 

1 Q ^, father. 2 g ^^ repects. 3 Q j^ <Gads.' * Qtos., Hit. 

5 Qy. J << Franke he is young " ? compare the preceding line but one. Dyce. 

fij^tos. , no comma. Qy., 'rime-rotten.' ^ spriicbe : rare. 



Ill] angry women of Abington 567 

With, 'neighbour, tis an olde proverbe and a true. 

Goose giblets are good meate, old sacke better then new ' ; 

Then saies another, 'neighbour, that is true'; 

And when each man hath drunke his gallon round, 355 

A penny pot, for thats the olde mans gallon. 

Then doth he licke his lips, and stroke his beard 

That's glewed together with his slavering droppes 

Of yesty ale, and when he scarce can trim 

His gouty fingers, thus hee'l phillip it, 360 

And with a rotten hem say, ' hey, my hearts, 

Merry go sorrie ! cocke and pye, my heartes ! ' 

But then their saving penny proverbe comes. 

And that is this, ' they that will to the wine, 

Berlady ^ mistresse, shall lay theyr penny to mine.* 365 

This was one of this penny-fathers ^ bastards. 

For, on my lyfe, he was never begot 

Without the consent of some great proverb-monger. 

M. Bar. O, ye are a wag. 

Phil. Well, now unto my busines. 370 

Swounds, will that mouth, thats made of olde sed sawes 
And nothing else, say nothing to us now? 

Nich. O master Phillip, forbeare ; you must not leape over the 
style before you come at it ; haste makes waste ; softe fire makes 
sweete malt ; not too fast for falling ; there's no hast to hang true 
men. 376 

Phil. Father, we ha'te, ye see, we ha'te. Now will I see if my 
memorie will serve for some proverbs too. O, — a painted cloath 
were as wel worth a shilling as a theefe woorth a halter ; well, after 
my heartie commendations, as I was at the making hereof; so it 
is, that I hope as you speed, so you're sure ; a swift horse will tire, 
but he that trottes easilie will indure. You have most learnedly 
proverbde it, commending the vertue of patience or forbearance, but 
yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance. 

Nich. I promise yee, maister Philip, you have spoken as true as 
Steele. 386 

Phil. Father, theres a proverbe well applied. 

1 By our lady. 2 miser. 



568 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Nich. And it seemeth unto me, I, it seemes to me, that you, 
maister Phillip, mocke me : do you not know, qui mocat mocabitur ? 
mocke age, and see how it will prosper. 390 

Phil. Why, ye whoresen proverb-booke bound up in follio, 
Have yee no other sence to answer me 
But every worde a proverbe ? no other English ? 
Well, He fulfill a proverb on thee straight. 

Nich. What is it, sir ? 395 

Phil. He fetch my fist from thine eare. 

Nich. Beare witnesse he threatens me ! 

Phil. Father, that same is the cowards common proverbe. — 
But come, come, sirra, tell me where Hugh is. 399 

Nich. I may, and I will ; I need not except I list ; you shall not 
commaund me, you give me neither meate, drinke, nor wages ; I 
am your fathers man, and a man's a man, and a have but a hose 
on his head; do not misuse me so, do not; for though he that is 
bound must obay, yet he that will not tarrie, may ^ runne away, so 
he may. 405 

M. Bar. Peace, Nicke, He see he shall use thee well; 
Go to, peace, sirra : here, Nicke, take this letter, 
Carrie it to him to whom it is directed. 

Nich. To whom is it ? 

M. Bar. Why, reade it : canst thou read ? 410 

Nich. Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly. 

M. Bar. Why, dost thou not use it ? 

Nich. Forsooth, as use makes perfectnes, so seldome scene is 
soone forgotten. 

M. Bar. Well said : but goe ; it is to master Goursey. 415 

Phil. Now, sir, what proverbe have ye to deliver a letter ? 

Nich. What need you to care ? who speakes to you ? you may 
speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to coole your 
pottage. Well, well, vou are my maisters sonne, and you looke 
for his lande ; but they that hope for dead mens shooes, may hap to 
go barefoote : take heed ; as soone goes the yong sheep to the pot 
as the olde. I pray God save my maysters life, for sildome comes 
the better ! 423 



iv] angry women of Abington 569 

PhiL O, he hath given it me ! Farewell, proverbes. 

Nich, Farewell, frost. ^ 425 

Phil. Shal I fling an old shoe after ye ? 

Nich. No ; you should say, God send faire weather after me ! 

Phil. I meane for good lucke. 

Nich. A good lucke on ye ! Exit. 

M. Bar. Alas, poore foole, he uses all his wit ! 430 

Phillip, in faith ^ this mirth hath cheered thought. 
And cussend it of his right play of passion. 
Goe after Nick, and, when thou thinkst hees there, 
Go in and urge to that which I have writ : 

He in these meddowes make a cerckling walke, 43c 

And in my meditation conjure so. 
As that same^ fend of thought, selfe-eating anger, 
Shall by my spels of reason ^ vanish quite: 
Away, and let me heare from thee to night. 

Phil. To night ! yes, that you shall : but harke ye, father ; 440 
Looke that you my sister waking keepe. 
For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe. Exeunt. 

[Scene Fourth. 'The Court-yard of Master Gourseys 
House at Milton^ 

Enter Franke and Boy. 

Frank. I am very dry with walking ore the greene. — 
Butler, some beere ! — Sirra, call the butler. 

Bo. Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give the butler 
a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he hath got a horses 
desease, namely the staggers ; to night hees a good huswife, he 
reeles al that he wrought to day ; and he were good now to play at 
dice, for he castes^ excellent well. 7 

Fran. How meanst thou ? is he drunke ? 

1 As who should say, "Your company is indifferent to me." So in Mother Bombie, 
*' Farewell frost, my fortune naught me cost," and Ray's Pro'verbs : "F.f , Nothing got nor 
nothing lost." 

2 Q 1^ faith in. 3 (^tos., some. * Qtos., treason. & vomits. 



570 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Boy, I cannot tell ; but I am sure hee hath more liquor in him 
then a whole dicker^ of hydes ; hees sockt throughly, i faith. lo 

Fran. Well, goe and call him ; bid him bring me drinke. 

Boy. I will, sir. Exit. 

Fran. My mother powtes, and will looke merrily 
Neither upon my father nor on me : 

He saies she fell out with mistresse Barnes to day; 15 

Then I am sure they'l not be quickly friends. 
Good Lord, what kinde of creatures women are ! 
Their love is lightly wonne and lightly lost ; 
And then their hate is deadly and extreame: 

He that doth take a wyfe betakes himselfe 20 

To all the cares and troubles of the world. 
Now her disquietnes doth grieve my father, 
Greeves me, and troubles all the house besides. — 
What, shall I have some drinke? \Horn sounded within\ — How 

now ? a home ! 
Belike the drunken slave ^ is fallen asleepe, 25 

And now the boy doth wake him with his home. 

\Enter Boy.] 

How now, sirra, wheres the butler ? 

Boy. Mary, sir, where he was even now, a sleepe; but I wakt 
him, and when he wakt, he thought he was in mayster Barnses 
buttery, for he stretcht himselfe thus, and yauning said, ' Nicke, 
honest Nicke, fill a fresh bowle of ale ; stand to it, Nicke, and 
thou beest a man of Gods making, stand to it' ; and then I winded 
my home, and hees horne-mad. 33 

Enter Hodge. 

Hodg. Boy, hey! ho, boy! and thou beest a man, draw. — O, 
heres a blessed mooneshine, God be thanked ! — Boy, is not this 
goodly weather for barley ? 36 

Boy. Spoken like a right maulster, Hodge : but doost thou heare ? 
thou art not drunke. 

Hod. No, I scorne that, i faith. 

Boy.^ But thy fellow Dicke Coomes is mightily drunke. 40 

1 A quantity often : one-twentieth of a last. 2 go Q 2. Dy., etc., * knave.' ^ Qtos., But. 



iv] angry women of Abington 571 

Hod. Drunke ! a plague on it, when a man cannot carrle his 
drinke well ! sbloud, He stand to it. 

Boy. Hold, man ; see and thou canst stand first. 

Hodge. Drunke ! hees a beast, and he be drunke ; theres no man 
that is a sober man will be drunk ; hees a boy, and he be drunke. 

Boy. No, hees a man as thou art. 46 

Hodge. Thus tis when a man will not be ruled by his friends : I 
bad him keepe under the lee, but he kept downe the weather two 
bowes ; I tolde him hee would be taken with a plannet,i but the 
wisest of us all may fall. 50 

B. True, Hodge. Boy trip him. 

Hod. Whope ! lend me thy hand, Dicke, I am falne into a wel ; 
lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else. 

Boy. Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge. 

Hodg. A rope on it ! 55 

Boy. I, there is a rope on it ; but where art thou, Hodge ? 

Hodge. In a well ; I prethie, draw up. 

Boy. Come, give up thy bodie ; wind up, hoyst. 

Hodg. I am over head and eares. 

Boy. In all, Hodge, in all. 60 

Fran. How loathsome is this beast mans shape to me, 
This mould of reason so unreasonable ! 2 
Sirra, why doost thou trip him downe, seeing hees drunke ? 

Boy. Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheape.^ 

Fran. How meane ye ? 65 

Boy. Why, they say that, when any thing hath a fall it is cheape ; 
and so of drunkards. 

Fran. Go to, helpe him up [^Knocking without^ : but, harke, who 
knockes ? [Boy goes to the gate, and returns. '\ 

Bo. Sir heeres one of maister Barnsies men with a letter to my 
olde maister. 71 

Fran. Which of them is it ? 

Boy. They call him Nicholas, sir. 

Fran. Go, call him in. [Exit Boy.] 

1 Struck by a tramp vessel ? 

2 Cf. Haml. I. ii,, "A beast that wants discourse of reason," and III. i., "the mould of 
form." *Q I) cebape. 



572 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Enter Coomes. 

Coom. By your leave, ho ! How now, young maister, how ist ? 

Fran. Looke ye, sirra, where your fellow lies; 76 

Hees in a fine taking, is he not ? 

Coom. Whope, Hodge ! where art thou, man, where art thou ? 

Hodge. O, in a well. 

Co. In a well, man ! nay, then, thou art deepe in understanding. 

Fran. I, once to day you were almost so, sir. 81 

Coom. Who, I ! go to, young maister, I do not like this humor 
in ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more: 
say I was in such a case ! go to, tis the greatest indignation that 
can be offered to a man ; and, but a mans more godlier given, you 
were able to make him sweare out his heart bloud. What though 
that honest Hodge have cut his finger heere ? or, as some say, cut a 
feather ? what thogh he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were ? tis 
no consequent to me : you know I have drunke all the ale-houses 
in Abington drie, and laide the tappes on the tables when 1 had 
done : sbloud, lie challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leape 
up to the chinne in a barrell of beere, and if I cannot drinke it down 
to my foote ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of the 
house, and then turne a good turne on the toe on it, let me be 
counted nobodie, a pingler,! ^ nay, let me be 2 bound to drinke 
nothing but small beere seven yeares after; and I had as leefe be 

^^"ge^- Enter Nicholas. 97 

Fran. Peace, sir, I must speake with one. — Nicholas, I think, 
your name is. 

Nich. True as the skinne betweene your browes. 100 

Fran. Well, how doth thy maister ? 

Nich. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better. 

Fran. Where is the letter he hath sent me ? 

Nich. Ecce signum ! heere it is. 

Fran. Tis right as Phillip said, tis a fine foole \_Jside~\. — 105 
This letter is directed to my father; 
He Carrie it to him. — Dick Coomes, make him drinke. Exit. 

1 Perhaps the word squints at two contemporary significations : cart-horse ; squeamish eater. 

2 Not in Q I , 



I 



v] angry women of Abington 573 

Coom. I, He make him drunke,! and he will. 

Nich. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merrie and wise. 109 

Dick?' Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome ; but as 
thou art Nicholas and a boone companion, ten times welcome. 
Nicholas, give me thy hand : shall we be merrie ? and wee shall, 
say but we shall, and let the first word stand. 

Nich, Indeed, as long lives the merrie man as the sad; an ownce 
of debt will not pay a pound of care. 1 1 c 

Coom. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ownce of debt. 

Nich. Well, tis a good horse never stumbles : but who lies here \ 

Coom. Tis our Hodge, and I thinke he lies asleep : you made 
him drunk at your house to day ; but He pepper some of you fort. 

Nic. I, Richard, I know youle put a man over the shooes, and if 
you can ; but hees a foole wil take more then wil do him good. 

Coom. Sbloud, ye shall take more then will doe yee good, or He 
make ye clap under the table. 123 

Nich. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbeare drinke, so 
have I patience to endure drinke : He do as company doth ; for when 
a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done. 126 

Coomes. Ha, my resolved Nicke, frolagozene ! 3 Y\\\ the potte, 
hostesse ; swounes, you whore ! Harry Hooke's a rascall. Helpe 
me but carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it, i faith. 

Exeunt. 



[Scene Fifth. In front of Gourseys House,'] 

Enter Phillip. 

Phil. By this, I thinke, the letter is delivered, 
And twill be shortly time that I step in, 
And wooe their favours for my sisters fortune : 
And yet I need not ; she may doe as well. 

But yet not better, as the case doth stand 5 

Betweene our mothers ; it may make them friends; 

1 Q I, 'drinke.' 2 q i^ jV:Vi). 

^ Cf. Du., -vrolijk zjjn, 'to be jolly,' and Heywood and Brome, Lane. Witches, **what, 
all lustick, all froligozene. " New Eng. Die. Q 2 reads ' Nicke Frolagozene ' se. ' Nick Jo-vial.^ 



574 ^ pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Nay, I would sweare that she would doe as well, 

Were she a stranger to one quality, 

But they are so acquainted, theil nere part. 

Why, she will floute the devill, and make blush 10 

The boldest face of man that ever man saw ; 

He that hath best opinion of his wit. 

And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter jestes 

Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so ever. 

Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite, 15 

Her wit's a sunne that melts him downe like butter, i 

And makes him sit at table pancake wise, i 

Flat, flat, [God knowes] ^ and nere a word to say; j 

Yet sheele not leave him then, but like a tyrant ■ 

Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man, 20 j 

And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffes, < 

When he is downe, most cowardly, good faith, i 

As I have pittied the poore patient. \ 

There came a farmers sonne a wooing to her, I 

A proper man, well landed too he was, 25 j 

A man that for his wit need not to aske I 

What time a yeere twere good to sow his oates ; 

Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reape, '. 

To plowe his fallowes, or to fell his trees, \ 

Well experienst thus each kinde of way ; 30 

After a two monthes labour at the most. 

And yet twas well he held it out so long. 

He left his love, she had so laste his lips 1 

He could say nothing to her but 'God be with yee * I > 

Why, she, when men have dinM and call for cheese, 35 | 

Will straight maintaine jests bitter to disgest; 

And then some one will fall to argument. 

Who, if he over master her with reason. 

Then sheele begin to buffet him with mockes. 

Well, I doe doubt Frances hath so much spleene, 40 

Theil nere agree ; but I will moderate. 

By this time tis time, I thinke, to enter : 

1 Omitted in Q 2. 



vi] angry women of Abington 575 

This is the house ; shall I knocke ? no ; I will not 

Waite while ^ one comes out to answere ; 

He in, and let them be as bolde with us. Exit. 45 



[Scene Sixth. A Room in Gourseys House ^ 

Enter Master Goursey, reading a letter. 

M. Gour. If that they like., her dowry shall he equall 
To your Sonne s wealth or possibility : 
It is a meanes to make our wives good friendes.^ 
And to continue friendship twixt us twoP' 

Tis so, indeed : I like this motion, 5 

And it hath my consent, because my wife^ 
Is sore infected and hart sick with hate ; 
And I have sought the Galen of advice, 
Which oneley tels me this same potion 
To be most soveraigne for her sicknes cure. 10 

Enter Franke and Phillip. 

Heere comes my sonne, conferring with his friend. — 
Fraunces, how do you like your friends discourse ? 
I know he is persuading to this motion. 

Fra. Father, as matter that befits a friend, 
But yet not me, that am too young to marry. 15 

M. Gou. Nay, if thy minde be forward with thy yeares. 
The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy ,3 
This match is answerable to thy birth ; 
Her bloud and portion give each other grace ; 

These indented lines promise a sum, 20 

And I do like the valew : if it hap 

1 until. — Ought not the passage to stand as follows ? — 

" no, I will not ; 
Nor waite while one comes out to answere »zi;," Dyce, 

^ Q 2, to. 

8 11. 6-10, printed as prose, Q 2. So also 11. 1 7-22, save that the initial letter of each line, 
except 22, is capitalized. 



K^jb A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc 

Thy liking to accord to my consent, 

It is a match. Wilt thou goe see the maide ? 

Fra. Nere. Trust me, father, the shape ^ of marriage, 
Which I doe see in others, seeme[s]^ so severe, 25 

I dare not put my youngling liberty 
Under the awe of that instruction ; 
And yet I graunt the limmits of free youth 
Going astray are often restrainde by that. 

But mistresse wedlocke, to my schoUer thoughts, 30 

Will be too curst, I feare. O, should she snip 
My pleasure ayming minde, I shall be sad. 
And sweare, when I did marry, I was mad ! 

M. Gour. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this — 
Yet, in good faith, thou speakst not much amisse ; — 35 

When first thy mothers fame to me did come, 
Thy grandsire thus then came to me his sonne, 
And even my words to thee to me he said, 
And as to me thou saist to him I said. 

But in a greater hufFe and hotter bloud, — 40 

I tell ye, on youthes tip-toes then I stood : 
Sales he (good faith, this was his very say), 
'When I was yong, I was but reasons foole, 
And went to wedding as to wisdomes schoole; 

It taught me much, and much I did forget, 45 

But, beaten much, bv it I got some wit ; 
Though I was shackled from an often scoute,^ 
Yet I would wanton it when I was out ; 
Twas comfort, old acquaintance then to meete. 
Restrained liberty attainde is sweet.' 50 

Thus said my father to thy father,^ sonne. 
And thou maist doe this too,^ as I have done. 

Phi. In faith, good counsell, Franke : what saist thou to it ? 

Fra. Phillip, what should I say ? 

Phil. Why, eyther I or no. 55 

Fra. O, but which rather ? 

1 H. and E, gratuitously, 'shackles.' 2 Qtos., seeme. 

3 excess ; cf. Scotch ' scouth ' ; free swing. * Q i^ fathers. ^ S^°^-» ^°' 



vi] angry women of Abington 577 

Phil. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father. 

Fra. Thats I, then,i j . q, should it fall out ill ! 
Then I, for I am guilty of that ill, — 
He not be guilty, no. 6o 

Phi. What, backeward gone ! 

Fra. Phillip, no whit backward ; that is, on. 

Phi. On, then. 

Fra. O, stay ! 

Phil. Tush, there is no good lucke in this delay : 65 

Come, come, late commers, man, are shent. 

Fra. Heigh ho, I feare I shall repent ! 
Well, which waye, Phillip ? ^ 

Phi. Why, this way. 

Fra. Canst thou tell. 

And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell ? — 70 

But which way, father ? 

M. Gour. That way. 

Fran. I, you know; 
You found the way to sorrow long agoe. 
Father, God boye ye : ^ you have sent your sonnc 
To seeke on earth an earthly day of doome, 75 

Where I shall be adjudged,"^ alacke the ruthe, 
To penance for the follies of my youth ! 
Well, I must goe, but, by my troth, my minde 
Is not love capable to^ that kinde. 

0, I have lookt upon this mould of men, 80 
As I have done upon a lyons den ! 

Praised I have the gallant beast I saw. 

Yet wisht me no acquaintance with his pawe : 

And must I now be grated with them ? well, 

Yet I may hap to proove a Daniell ; 85 

And, if I doe, sure it would make me laugh, 

To be among wilde beastes and yet be safe. 

Is there a remedy to abate their rage ? 

Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. 

1, but how catch them ? marry, in your hand 90 

1^1, than. 2 Qtos., Franke. 3 be wi' ye. * Q 2, 'judged.' 6 Dy.; qy., *unto.' 



578 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Carrie me foorth a burning fire brand, 

For with his sparkHng shine, olde rumor sales, 

A fire brand the swiftest runner fraies : 

This I may doe ; but, if it proove not so, 

Then man goes out to seeke his adjunct woe. 95 

PhiUip, away ! and, father, now adew ! 

In quest of sorrow I am sent by you. 

M. Gou. Returne the messenger of joy, my sonne. 

Fran. Sildome in this world such a worke is done. 

Phi. Nay, nay, make hast, it will be quicklie night. 100 

Fra. Why, is it not good to wooe by candle light ? 

Phil. But, if we make not haste theile be abed. 

Fran. The better, candels out and curtans spred. 

Exeunt [Francis and Phillip] . 

M. Gour. I know, though that my sons years be not many. 
Yet he hath wit to wooe as well as any. 105 

Here comes my wife : I am glad my boy is gone 

Enter Mistresse Goursey. 

Ere she came hether. — How now, wife ? how ist .? 
What, are ye yet in charity and love 
With mistresse Barnes ? 

Mi. Gou. With mistris Barnes ! why mistris ^ Barnes, I pray ? 

M. Gou. Because she is your neighbour and 1 1 1 

Mi. Gou. And what? 
And a jealous slandering spitefull queane she is, 
One that would blur my reputation 

With her approbrious mallice, if she could. 1 15 

She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame : 
Tis knowne that I have lived in honest name 
All my life time, and bin your right true wife. 

M. Gour. I entertaine no other thought, my wife. 
And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 120 

Mis. Gou. And my behaviour is as sound as it; 
But her ill speeches seekes to Tot my credit. 
And eate it with the worme of hate and mallice. 

1 2 I, maister. 



vi] angry women of Abington 579 

M. Gou. Why, then, preserve it you by patience. 

Mi. Gou, By patience ! would ye have me shame my selfe, 
And cussen my selfe to beare her injuries ? 126 

Not while her eyes be open will I yeelde 
A word, a letter, a sillables valew. 
But equall and make even her wrongs to me 
To her againe. 1 30 

M. Gou. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame. 

Mi. Gou. Am I too blame, sir ? pray, what letters this ? 

\_Snatches the letter.'^ 

M. Gou. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, 
Rudelie to snatch it from me. Give it me. 

Mi. Gou. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 135 

M. Gou. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you. 

Mi. Gou. No, no, it shall not need : I am a scholler 
Good enough to read a letter, sir. 

M. Gou. Gods passion, if she knew but the contents, 
Sheele seeke to crosse this match ! she shall not read it. — \_Aside^ 
Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me. 141 

Mi. Gou. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it. 

M. Gou. What, will you moove me to impatience, then ? 

Mi. Gou. Tut, tell not me of your impatience ; 
But since you talke, sir, of impatience, 145 

You shall not have the letter, by this light. 
Till I have read it ; soule, ile burne it first ! 

M. Gou. Go to, ye move me, wife ; give me the letter ; 
In troth, I shall growe angry, if you doe not. 

Mi. Gou. Grow to the house top with your anger, sir ! 150 

Nere tell me, I care not thus much for it. 

M. Gour. Well, I can beare enough, but not too much. 
Come, give it me ; twere best you be persuaded ; 
By God — ye make me sweare — now God forgive me! — 
Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; 155 

Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart. 

Mis. Gou. Hart me no hearts, you shall not have it, sir, 
No, you shall not ; nere looke so big, 
I will not be afFraide at your great lookes 5 



580 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 160 

M. Gou. Shall I not have ^ it ? in troth. He try that : 

Minion, He hav'te ; shall I not hav'te ? — I am loath — 

Go too, take pausment, be advisde — 

In faith, I will ; and stand not long upon it — 

A woman of your yeares ! I am ashamde 165 

A couple of so long continuance 

Should thus — Gods foote — I crye God hartely mercy ! — 

Go to, ye vex me ; and He vexe ye for it ; 

Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad 

To tender it on your knees; heare ye, I will, I will. 170 

What, worse and worse stomacke ! true, i ^ faith ! 

Shall I be crost by you in my olde age ? 

And where I should have greatest comfort to, 

A nursse of you ? — nursse in the divels name ! — 

Go to, mistris ; by Gods pretious deere, 1 75 

If ye delaie — 

Mi. Gou. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit 

Are you in, husband ! so inrag'd, so moov'd, 

And for so slight a cause, to read a letter ! 

Did this letter, love, conteine my death, 1 80 

Should you denie my sight of it, I would not 

Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, 

But willinglie yeeld me a patient 

Unto the doome that your displeasure gave. 

Heere is the letter; not for that your incensment 185 

\_Gwes back the letter. ~\ 

Makes me make offer of it, but your health, 

Which anger, I doe feare, hath crasd. 

And viper like hath suckt away the bloud 

That wont was to be cheerefull in this cheeke : 

How pale yee looke ! 190 

M. Gou. Pale ! can yee blame me for it ? I tell you true, 

An easie matter could not thus have moov'd me. 

Well, this resignement, and so foorth — but, woman. 

This fortnight shall I not forget yee for it. — 

1 Q 2, haun. ^ 2 ^j y^- 



VI] angry women of Abington 581 

Ha, ha, I see that roughnes can doe somewhat ! 195 

I did not thinke, good faith, I could have set 

So sower a face upon it, and to her. 

My bed embracer, my right bosome friend. 

I would not that she should have scene the letter, 

As poore a man as I am, by my troth, 200 

For twenty pound : well, I am glad I have it. — \_Aside.'\ 

Ha, heres adoe about a thing of nothing ! 

What, stomack, ha ! tis happy you come downe. Exit. 

Ml. Gou. Well, craftie ^ fox. He hunt ye, by my troth : 
Deale ye so closely ? Well, I see his drift : 205 

He would not let me see the letter, least 
That I should crosse the match ; and I will crosse it. — 

Enter Comes. ^ 
Dicke Coomes ? ^ 

Coom. Forsooth. 

Mis. Gour. Come hether, Dicke; thou art a man I love, 210 
And one whom I have much in my regarde. 

Coo. I thanke ye for it, mistris, I thanke ye for it. 

Mi. Gou. Nay, heers my hand, I will do very much 
For thee, if ere thou standst in need of me ; 

Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, 215 

Money, apparrell 

Coo. And sword and bucklers ? 

Mis. Gou. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick, 
So thou wilt use but this in my defence. 219 

Coom. This ! no, faith, I have no minde to this ; breake my 
head, if this breake not, if we come to any tough play. Nay, mis- 
tres, I had a sword, I, the flower of Smithfield for a sword, a right 
fox,^ i faith ; with that, and a man had come over with a smooth 
and a sharpe stroke, it would have cried twang, and then, when I 
had doubled my point, traste my ground, and had carried my buckler 
before me like a garden but,* and then come in with a crosse blowe, 
and over the picke^ of his buckler two elles long, it would have 

1 (^ I, craft. 2 So Q 2 ; but Dy., H., E., transpose these lines. 

3 broadsword. * H., 'garden-butt.' ^ the sharp point in the centre. Dyce. 



582 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

cryed twang, twang, mettle, mettle: but a dogge hath his day; tis 
gone, and there are few good ones made now. I see by this dearth 
of good swords that ^ dearth of sword and buckler fight begins to grow 
ont : ^ I am sorrye for it ; I shall never see good manhood againe, 
if it be once gone ; this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come 
up then ; then a man, a tall ^ man, and a good sword and buckler 
man, will be spitted like a cat or a cunney ; then a boy will be as 
good as a man, unlesse the Lord shewe mercie unto us ; well, I had 
as lieve bee hang'd as live to see that day. Wei, mistres, what 
shal I do? what shal I do? 237 

Mis. Gour. Why, this, brave Dicke. Thou knowest that 
Barnses ^ wife 
And I am foes : now, man me to her house ; 

And though it be darke, Dicke, yet weelle have no light, 240 

Least that thy maister should prevent our journey 
By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, 
And if that she and I do fall to words, 
Set in thy foote and quarrell with her men. 

Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, 245 

And make as though thou struckst at a man. 
And hit her, and thou canst, — a plague upon her! — 
She hath misusde me, Dicke : wilt thou do this ? 

Coom. Yes, mistresse, I will strike her men ; but God forbid that 
ere Dicke Coomes should be scene to strike a woman ! 250 

Ml. Gour. Why, she is mankind,^ therefore thou maist strike her. 

Cootn. Mankinde ! nay, and she have any part of a man. He 
strike her, I warrant. 

Mi. Gour. Thats my good Dicke, thats my sweet Dicke ! 254 

Coom. Swones, who would not be a man of valour to have such 
words of a gentlewoman ! one of their words are more to me then 
twentie of these russet coates cheese-cakes and butter makers. 
Well, I thanke God, I am none of these cowards ; well, and a man 
have any vertue in him, I see he shall be regarded. \_Jside.'] 

Mi. Gour. Art thou resolved, Dicke ? wilt thou do this for me ? 
And if thou wilt, here is an earnest penny 261 

Of that rich guerdon I do meane to give thee. \_Gives money.~\ 

1^1, and. 2 Qtos., out. ^ brave. * Q ^> Gourseys. ^ manlike. 



vii] angry women of Abington 583 

Coom. An angell, mistresse ! let me see. Stand you on my left 
hand, and let the angell lye on my buckler on my right hand, for 
feare of losing. Now, heere stand I to be tempted.^ They say, 
every man hath two spirits attending on him, eyther good or bad ; 
now, I say, a man hath no other spirits but eyther his wealth or his 
wife : now, which is the better of them ? why, that is as they are 
used ; for use neither of them well, and they are both nought. But 
this is a miracle to me, that golde that is heavie hath the upper, and 
a woman that is light doth soonest fall, considering that light things 
aspire, and heavie things soonest go downe : but leave these con- 
siderations to sir John,2 they become a blacke coate better than a 
blew. Well, mistresse, I had no minde to daye to quarrell ; but a 
woman is made to bee a mans seducer; you say, quarrell. 275 

Ml. Gou. I. 

Coom. There speakes an angell : is it good ? 

Mis. Gou. I. 

Coom. Then, I cannot doe amisse; the good angell goes with me. 

Exeunt. 

[Scene Seventh.^ The Forest near Sir Raphs House.~\ 

Enter Sir Raph Smith, his Lady, and Will \_and Attendants], 

S. Raph. Come on, my harts : i faith, it is ill lucke, 
To hunt all day, and not kill any thing. 
What sayest thou, lady ? art thou weary yet ? 

La. I must not say so, sir. 

Sir Ra. Although thou art. 5 

Wil. And can you blame her, to be foorth so long, 
And see no better sport ? 

Ra. Good faith, twas very hard. 

La. No, twas not ill. 
Because, you know, it is not good to kill. 10 

Ra. Yes, venson, ladie. 

La. No, indeed, nor them ; 
Life is as deere in deare as tis in men. 

1 Cf. M. of V.y II. ii., dialogue between Gobbo's conscience and the fiend. 

2 the parson. » E., Act III. Sc. i. 



584 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Ra, But they are kild for sport. 

Lad. But thats bad play, 15 

When they are made to sport their Hves away. 

Ra. Tis fine to see them runne. 

La. What, out of breath ? 
They runne but ille that runne themselves to death. 

Ra. They might make, then, lesse hast, and keep their winde. 

La. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behinde. 21 

Rap. Then, twere as good for them at first to stay, 
As to run long, and run their lives away. 

La. I, but the stoutest of you all thats here 
Would run from death and nimbly scud for feare. 25 

Now, by my troth, I pittie those poor elfes.^ 

Ra. Well, they have made us but bad sport to day. 

La. Yes, twas my sport to see them scape away. 

Will. I wish that I had beene at one bucks fall. 

La. Out, thou wo(Kl-tyrant ! thou art worst of all. 30 

Wil. A woodman,'^ ladie, but no tyrant I. 

La. Yes, tyrant-like thou lovest to see lives dye. 

Ra. Lady, no more : I do not like this lucke, 
To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. 

Well, it is late ; but yet I sweare I will 35 

Stay heere all night but I a buck will kill. 

La. All night ! nay, good sir Raph Smith, do not so. 

Ra. Content ye, ladie. — Will, go fetch my bow : 
A berrie ^ of faire roes I saw to day 

Downe by the groves, and there He take my * stand, 40 

And shoote at one ; God send a luckie hand ! 

La. Will ye not, then, sir Raph, go home with me ? 

Ra. No, but my men shall beare thee company. — 
Sirs, man her home. — Will, bid the huntsmen couple, 
And bid them well reward their hounds to night. — 45 

Ladie, farewell. — Will, hast ye with the bow j 
He stay for thee heere by the grove below. 

1 A line missing, to rhyme with ' elfes.' Hazlitt. ^ forester. 

3 A barrow 5 also a burrow when of rabbits, as in Sc. x, 1. 9. Here it is probably a 
misprint for bevvie = bevy. So E. * Q ^> '"'• 



viii] angry women of Abington 585 

Wil. I will ; but twill be darke, I shall not see : 
How shall I see ye, then ? 

Ra. Why, hollo to me, and I wil answer thee. 50 

Wil. Enough, I wil. 

Raph. Farewell. Exit, 

La. How willingly doost thou consent to go 
To fetch thy maister that same killing bow ! 

Wil. Guiltie of death I willing am in this, 55 

Because twas our ill haps to day to misse : 
To hunt, and not to kill, is hunters sorrow. 
Come, ladie, weell have venson ere to morrow. Exeunt. 

[Scene Eighth. In front of Barneses House ^ 

Enter Philip and Frank [and Boy] . 

Phil. Come, Franke, now we are hard by the ^ house : 
But how now, sad ? 

Fran. No, to studie how to woe thy sister. 

Phil. How, man ? how to woe her ! why, no matter how ; 
I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woe. 5 

Thy cheekes not subject to a childish blush, 
Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit ; 
I know thy oratorie can unfold 
Quicke invention, plausible discourse. 

And set such painted beautie on thy tongue, 10 

As it shall ravish every maiden sence ; 
For, Franke, thou art not like the russet youth 
I tolde thee of, that went to woe a wench. 
And being full stuft up with fallow wit 

And meddow matter, askt the pretty maide I5 

How they solde corne last market day with them, 
Saying, ' Indeed, twas very deare with them.' 
And, do ye heare, ye^ had not need be^ so. 
For she* will, Francis, throwly ^ trie your wit : 
Sirra, sheel bow the mettall of your wits, 20 

Ij^ij'th.' ^Qtos.yhe. 3(^2, 'doe.' * Q i, tbee. 6 Q i , ' thorowly. ' 



586 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

And, if they cracke, she will not hold ye currant ; 

Nay, she will way your wits as men way ^ angels. 

And, if it ^ lacke a graine, she will not change ^ with ye. 

I cannot speake it but in passion. 

She is a wicked wench to make a jest ; 25 

Aye me, how full of floutes and mockes she is ! 

Fran. Some aqua v'ltcs reason to recover 
This sicke discourser ! Sound * not, prethy, Philip. 
Tush, tush, I do not thinke her as thou saiest : 
Perhaps shees opinions darling, Phillip, 30 

Wise in repute, the crowes bird. O my friend, 
Some judgements slave themselves to small desart,^ 
And wondernize the birth of common wit. 
When their owne^ straungenes do but make that strange, 
And their ill errors do but make that good : 35 

And why should men debase to make that good ? 
Perhaps such admiration winnes her wit. 

Phil. Well, 1 am glad to heare this bold prepare 
For this encounter. Forward, hardy Franke ! 

Yonders the window with the candle int ; 40 

Belike shees putting on her night attire : 
I told ye, Franke, twas late. Well, I will call her, 
Mary, softly, that my mother may not heare. — 
Mall, sister Mall ! 

Enter Mall in the window, 

Mai. How now, whose there } 45 

Phil. Tis I. 

Mai. Tis I ! who I ? I, quoth the dogge, or what ? 
A Christ crosse rowe I ? ^ 
Phi. No, sweete pinckanie.^ 
Mai. O, ist you, wilde oates } 50 

1 Q 2, * may.* 5 bow down before intellects of small merit. 

2 Q 2, /. 6 gtos,, luone. 

* Q 2, chanke. 'An 7 of the Christ-cross row or alphabet. 

* Q I, sound, i.e. swoon. ^ pjgsney. Cent. Diet. But Dyce : a term of 
endearment, formed, perhaps, from pinky to wink, to contract the eyelids. 



v^iii] angry women of Abington 587 

Phil. I, forsooth, wanton. 

Mai. Well said, scape thrift. 

Fran. Philip, be these your usual! best salutes ? 

Phi. This is the harmlesse chiding of that dove. 

Fran. Dove ! one of those that drawe the queene of love ? 55 

Mai. How now ? whose that, brother ? whose that with ye ? 

Phil. A gentleman, my friend. 

Mai. Beladie, he hath a pure wit. 

Fran. How meanes your holy judgement ? 

Mai. O, well put. in, sir! 60 

Fran. Up, you would say. 

Mai. Well climde, gentleman ! 
I pray, sir, tell me, do you carte the queene of love ? 

Fran. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, 
And a fit place for gentle love to lye. 65 

Mai. I, but me thinkes you speake without the booke, 
To place a fower ^ wheele waggon in my looke : 
Where will you have roome to have the coachman sit ? 

Fran. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit : 
His dutie is, before you bare to stand, 70 

Having a lustie whipstocke in his hand. 

Ma. The place is voide ; will you provide me one ? 

Fra. And if you please, I will supply the roome. 

Mai. But are ye cunning in the carmans lash ? 
And can ye whistle well ? 75 

Fran. Yes, I can well direct the coache of love. 

Mai. Ah cruell carter, would you whip a dove ? 

Phil. Harke ye, sister — 

Mai. Nay, but harke ye, brother; 
Whose white 2 boy is that same ? know ye his mother? 80 

Phil. He is a gentleman of a good house. 

Mai. Why, is his house of gold ? 
Is it not made of lyme and stone like this ? 

Phil. I meane, hees well descended. 

Mai. God be thanked ! 85 

Did he descend some steeple or some ladder ? 

1 gtos., foiver. 2 dear. 



588 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Phi. Well, you will still be crosse.: I tell ye, sister, 
This gentleman by all your friends consent 
Must be your husband. 

Mai. Nay, not all, some sing another note; 90 

My mother will say no, I hold a groate. 
But I thought twas somewhat, he would be a carter ; 
He hath beene whipping lately some blinde beare, 
And now he would ferke ^ the blinde boy heere with us. 

Phil. Well, do you heare, you, sister, mistresse Would-Have ? ^ 
You that do long for somewhat, I know what — 96 

My father tolde me — go to, He tell all 
If ye be crosse — do ye heare me ? I have labourd 
A yeares worke in this afternoone for ye : 

Come from your cloyster, votarie, chas[t]e nun,^ 1 00 

Come downe and kisse PVanke Gourseys mothers sonne. 

Mai. Kisse him, I pray ? 

Phi. Go to, stale maidenhead ! come downe, I say, 
You seveneteene and upward, come, come downe ; 
You'l stay till twentie else for your wedding gowne. 105 

Mai. Nun, votarie, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward ! 
Here be names ! what, nothing else ? 

Fran. Yes, or a faire built steeple without bels. 

Mai. Steeple ! good people, nay, another cast. 

Fran. I, or a well made ship without a mast. IIO 

Md. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of foure. 

Fran. Why, then, ye are a boate without an oare. 

Mai. O, well rode,"* wit ! but whats your fare, I pray ? 

Fran. Your faire selfe must be my fairest pay. 

Mai. Nav, and you be so deare, lie chuse another. 1 1 5 

Fran. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further. 

Phi. Peace, Francis. — Harke ye, sister, this I say : ^ 
You know my mind ; or answer, I or nay. 
Wit and judgement hath resolvde his mind. 

And he foresees what after he shall finde : 1 20 

If such discretion, then, shall governe you, 

1 beat, urge. ^ Q 2, ' would have.' 3 cf. M.N.D.^ I. i. 70-72 ; II. ii. 162-163 

* rowed. ^ Q ^ prints 11. 1 1 7-120 as prose,but with initial capitals. 



viii] angry women of Abington 589 

Vow love to him, heele do the like to you. 

Mai. Vow love ! who would not love such a comely feature, 
Nor high nor lowe, but of the middle stature ? 

A middle man, thats the best syze indeed ; 125 

I like him well : love graunt us well to speed ! 

Fran. And let me see a woman of that tallnesse, 
So slender and of such a middle smalnesse. 
So olde enough, and in each part so fit. 

So faire, so kinde, endued with so much wit, 130 

Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, 
Twere pittie to keepe love and her asunder ; 
Therefore go up, my joy, call downe my blisse ; 
Bid her come scale the bargaine with a kisse. 

Mai. Franke, Franke, I come through dangers, death, and harmes. 
To make loves patent ^ with my ^ scale of armes. 136 

Phi. But, sister, softly, least my mother heare. 

Mai. Hush, then : mum, mouse in cheese,^ cat is neere. 

Exit Mal.'' 

Fran. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, 
That I have woed and wonne in so small while. 140 

Phi. Francis, indeed, my sister, I dare say, 
Was not determined to say thee nay ; 
For this same tother thing, calde maiden-head. 
Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred. 

And worne so too^ with time, it must needs fall, 145 

And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call. 

\_E?iter Mall.] 

Mai. Whist, brother, whist ! my mother heard me tread, 
And askt. Whose there ? I would not answer her; 
She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me: 
There when she findes me not, sheel hether come; 150 

Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. 
Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee. 
Date of my life and thine : what sayest thou to me .? 

1 Qtos. patient. ^ 2 ^> cheesse. * (J I, W. 

2 So H. and E,; but Qtos. * thy.' * Q ^j After previous line. 



590 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

The entring, fine, or income thou must pay, 

Are kisses and embrases every day; 155 

And quarterly I must receive my rent ; 

You know my minde. 

Fran. I gesse at thy intent : 
Thou shalt not misse a minute of thy time. 

Mai. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am onely thine, — 160 

Brother, beare witnesse. 

Phi. Do ye deliver this as your deed ? 

Mul. I do, I do. 

Ph. God send ye both good speed ! Gods Lord, my mother ! 
Stand aside, and closely too, least that you be espied.^ 165 

\Enter Mistresse Barnes.] 

Mi. Ba. Whose there ? 

Phi. Mother, tis I. 

Mis. Ba. You disobedient rufFen, carlesse wretch, 
That said your father lovde me but too well ! 

He thinke on't when thou thinkst I have forgotten ^ it: 170 

Whose with thee else ? — How now, minion ? you ! 
With whom ? with him ! — Why, what make you heere, sir. 
And thus late too ? what, hath your mother sent ye 
To cut my throate, that heere you be in waite ? — 
Come from him, mistris, and let go his hand. — 175 

Will ye not, sir ? 

Fra. Stay, mistresse Barnes, or mother, what ye will ; 
Shees^ my wife, and here she shall be still. 

Mi. Ba. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter 
have ? 
He rather have her married to her grave.* 180 

1 Some word, or words, have dropt out here. The lines ought to be arranged thus : — 

*' God send ye both good speed ! — 

Gods Lord, my mother ! — S^uickly stand aside. 
And closely too, least that you be espied." Dyce. 
The missing foot before * stand ' may indicate the dramatic pause for surprise. See my Appen- 
dix to Greene (Metres). 

2 Dy., H., E., ' forgot.' 3 Read, for the metre, *' Shee is." Dyce. 
* Cf. Romeo and Juliet^ Act III. v. 141. 



viii] angry women of Abington 591 

Go to, be gone, and quickly, or I sweare 
He have my men beate ye for staying here. 

Phi. Beate him, mother ! as I am true man, 
They were better beate the divell and his dam. 

Mi. Bar. What, wilt thou take his part ? 1 85 

Phil. To do him good. 
And twere to wade hetherto up in blood. 

Fran. God a mercy, Phil ! 1 — But, mother, heare me. 

Mis. Bar. Calst thou me mother ? no, thy mothers name 
Carryes about with it reproche and shame. 190 

Give me my daughter : ere that she shall wed 
A strumpets sonne, and have her so mislead, 
He marry her to a carter; come, I say. 
Give me her from thee. 

Fra. Mother,^ not to day, 195 

Nor yet to morrow, till my lives last morrow 
Make me leave that which 1 with leave did borrow : 
Heere I have borrowed love. He not denaie^ it. — 
Thy wedding night's my day, then He repay it. — 
Till then sheel trust me. — Wench, ist * not so ? 200 

And if it be, say I, if not, say no. 

Mai. Mother, good mother, heare me ! O good God, 
Now we are even, what, would you make us odde ? 
Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ, 

To give me leave once to do what I list. 205 

I am as you were when you were a maide ; 
Gesse by your selfe how long you would have staide, 
Might you have had your will : as good begin 
At first as last, it saves us from much sinne \ 

Lying alone, we muse on things and things, 210 

And in our mindes one thought another brings : 
This maides life, mother, is an idle life. 
Therefore He be, I, I will be a wife ; 
And, mother, doe not mistrust ^ my age or power, 
I am sufficient, I lacke nere an houre ; 215 

1 Eds. ' Philip.' 2 Q 2^ Mather. * Q 2, * deny.' 

* Read, for the metre, "is it." Dyce. ® Q i> mistrurst. 



592 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

I had both wit to graunt when he did woe me, 
And strength to beare what ere he can doe to me. 

Ml. Bar} Well, bold-face, but I meane to make you stay. 
Goe to, come from him, or He make ye come : 
Will yee not come ? 220 

Phi. Mother, I pray forbeare; 
This match is for my sister. 

Mi. Bar. Villaine, tis not ; 
Nor she shall not be so matcht now. 

Phi. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate 225 

Shall not rule us ; weele end all this debate 
By this begun devise. 

Mi. Bar. I, end what you begun ! Villaines, theeves, 
Give me my daughter ! will ye rob me of her ? — 
Help, help ! theil rob me heere, theil rob me heere ! 230 

Enter Master Barnes and his men. 

M. Bar. How now? what outcry is here ? why, how now, woman? 

Mi. Ba. Why, Gourseys sonne, confederates ^ with this boy. 
This wretch unnaturall and undutifull, 
Seekes hence to steale my daughter : will you suffer it ? 
Shall he, thats sonne to my arche-enemy, 235 

Enjoy her ? have I brought her up to this ? 

God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not ! 

M. Bar. I am sorry she knowes it. \^Aside'^ . — Harke ye, wife, 
Let reason moderate your rage a little. 

If you examine but his birth and living, 240 

His wit and good behaviour, you will say. 
Though that ill hate make your opinion bad, 
He dooth deserve as good a wife as she. 

Enter Mistris Goursey and Coomes.^ 

Mi. Bar. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy her ? 

M. Bar. I, so that thy minde would agree with mine. 245 

Mi. Bar. My minde shall nere agree to this agreement. 

1 Q. a, Ml Gou. 

2 So Qtos. Eds. , * confederate. ' But the plural is idiomatic : as ' he has gone partners with Philip. ' 
* Occurs here in (^tos. (to warn the actors to be in readiness for coming on the stage). Dyce. 



viii] angry women of Abington 593 

M. Ba, And yet it shall go forward : — but who's heere ? 
What, mistris Goursey ! how knew she of this ? 

Phi. Franke, thy mother. 

Fra, Swones, where ? a plague uppon it ! 250 

I thinke the devill is set to crosse this match. 

Mi, Go. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonders light : 
Let us go neere. How now ? me thinkes I see 
My Sonne stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter. — 
Why, how now, sirra ? is this time of night 255 

For you to be abroad ? what have we heere ? 
I hope that love hath not thu^ coupled you. 

Fra. Love, by my troth, mother, love : she loves me, 
And I love her; then we must needs agree. 

Mi. Bar. I, but He keep her sure enough, from thee. 260 

Mi. Go. It shall not need. He keep him safe enough; 
Be sure he shal not graft in such a stock. 

Mi. Bar. What stock, forsooth ? as good a stock as thine : 
I doe not meane that he shall graft in mine. 

Mi. Gou. Nor shall he, mistris. — Harke, boy ; th'art but mad 
To love the branch that hath a roote so bad. 266 

Fra. Then, mother. He graft a pippin on a crab. 

Mii Gou. It will not proove well. 

Fra. But He proove my skill. 

Mi. Bar. Sir, but you shall not. 270 

Fra. Mothers both, I will. 

M. Bar. Harke, Phillip : send away thy sister straight ; 
Let Francis meete her where thou shalt appoint ; 
Let them go severall to shun suspition. 

And bid them goe to Oxford both this night; 275 

There to morrow say that we will meete them. 
And there determine of their marriage. [Jside.^ 

Phi. I will : though it be very late and darke. 
My sister will endure it for a husband. [^Aside.'] 279 

M. Ba. Well, then, at ^ Carfolkes,^ boy, I meane to meet them. 

[ Aside. ^ 

2 Carfax {quadrifurcui)^ the centre of Oxford, at the junction of Cornmarket, St. Aldate's, 
Queen St. , and the High. 

2Q. 



594 ^ pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Phil. Enough. Exit [Master Barnes]. 

Would they would begin to chide ! 
For I would have them brawling, that meane while 

They may steale hence, to meete where I appoint ^ it. \Aside\ 

What, mother, will you let this match go forward ? — 

Or, mistresse Goursey, will you first agree ? 285 

Ml. Gou. Shall I agree first ? 

Phi. I, why not ? come, come. 

Mi. Go. Come from her, sonne, and if thou lov'st thy mother. 

Mi. Bar. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee. 

Mi. G. Francis, by faire means let me win thee from her, 290 
And I will gild my blessing, gentle sonne, 
With store of angels. I would not have thee 
Check thy good fortune by this cusning choise : 
O, doe not thrall thy happie libertie 

In such a bondage ! if thou'lt be needs bound, 295 

Be, then, to better worth ; this worthlesse choise 
Is not fit for thee. 

Mi. Bar. 1st not fit for him ? wherefore ist not fit ? 
Is he too brave '^ a gentleman, I praie ? 

No, tis not fit; she shall not fit his turne : 300 

If she were wise, she would be fitter for 
Three times his better. — Minion, go in, or He make ye; 
He keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye. 

Mi. Gou. Come, Francis, come from her. 

Fra. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love, 305 

That like an ill companion would infedl 
The infant minde of our affeftion ^ : 
Within this cradle shall this minutes babe 
Be laide to rest ; and thus He hug* my joy. 

Mi. Gou. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou selfe wilde^ boy? 310 
Nay, then, perforce He parte ye, since ye will not. 

Coom. Doe yee heare, mistresse ? praie yee give me leave to 
talke two or three cold words with my yong master. — Harke ye, 
sir, yee are my masters sonne, and so foorth ; and indeed I beare ye 
some good will, partlie for his sake, and partly for your own ; and I 

1^2, Oppoint. 2 f^ne. ^ Q 2, offection. * Q 2, huge. ^ Sc, self-wllcd. 



viii] angry women of Abington 595 

do hope you do the like to me, — I should be sorry els. I must 
needs sale, ye are a yong man ; and for mine owne part, I have 
scene the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and the expe- 
rience that I have, I thanke God I have travelled for it. 

Fra. Why, how far have yee travelled for it ? 320 

Boy. From my masters house to the ale-house. 

Coo, How, sir ? 

Bo. So, sir. 

Coo. Go to. — I praie, correct you boie ; twas nere a good 
world,' since a boie would face a man so. 325 

Fra. Go to. — Forward, man. 

Coom. Wei, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without 
my mistres consent. 

Fra. And why \ 

Coom. Nay, theres nere a why but there is a wherefore ; I have 
known some have done the like, and they have daunst a galliard at 
Beggers bush ^ for it. 332 

Boy. At Beggers bush ! — here him no more, maister ; he doth 
bedawbe ^ ye with his durty speech. — Doe ye heare, sir ? how farre 
stands Beggers bushe from your fathers house, sir ? How, thou 
whorson refuge ^ of a tailor, that wert prentise to a tailor half an 
age, and because if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst proove 
but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop board to a blew coate,* 
doth it become thee to use thy tearmes so ? wel, thou degree above 
a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sow up your lubber lips, 
or tis not your sworde and buckler shall keep my poniard from your 
brest. 342 

Coo. Do yee heare, sir ? this is your boy. 

Fran. How then ? 

Coom. You must breech him for it. 345 

Fran. Must I ? how, if I will not ? 

Coom. Why, then, tis a fine world when boies keep boies, and 
know not how to use them. 

Fra. Boy, ye rascall ! 

1 A common proverbial expression : '< Beggars bush,'' says Ray, " being a tree notoriously 
known, on the left hand of the London road from Huntington to Caxton." Proverbs, p. 
244, ed. 1768. Dyce. '^ Q^ z, be dawbe. ^ refuse. * livery. 



596 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Mi. Gour. Strike him, and thou darst. 350 

Coom. Strike me ! alas, he were better strike his father ! — 
Sownes, go to, put up your bodkin.^ 

Fran. Mother, stand by ; He teach that rascall — 

Coom. Go to, give me good words, or, by Gods dines,^ He buckle 
ye for all your bird-spit. 355 

Fran. Will ye so, sir ? 

Phi. Stay, Franke, this pitch of frensie will defile thee ; 
Meddle not with it : thy unreprooved vallour 
Should be high minded ; couch it not so low. — 
Dost heare me ? take occasion to slip hence, 360 

But secretly, let not thy mother see thee : 
At the back side there is a cunny greene ; ^ 
Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. \^Aside.'\ 

Fra. Enough, I will. \_Aside\ . — Mother, you doe me wrong 
To be so peremptory in your commaund, 365 

And see that rascall to abuse me so. 

Coom. Rascall ! take that and take all ! Do ye heare, sir ? I 
doe not meane to pocket up this wrong. 

Bo. I know why that is. 

Coo, Why ? ' 370 

Bo. Because you have nere a pocket. 

Co. A whip, sira, a whip ! — - But, sir, provide your tooles against 
to morrow morning; tis somewhat darke now, indeed: you know 
Dawsons close, betweene the hedge and the pond ; tis good even 
ground ; He meete you there; and I do not, call me cut,* and you 
be a man, shew yourselfe a man ; weele have a bout or two ; and 
so weele part for that present. 377 

Fran. Well, sir, well. 

Nic. [approaching.^ Boy, have they appointed to fight ? 

1 Common term for a small dagger, but, like * bird-spit ' in the next speech of Coomes, here 
used in contempt. Dyce. 

2 The origin of this corrupted oath is unknown; Dy. , H., and E. N. E. D. queries 
dignesse = Goddes dignity. But the poet seems to be thinking of ' dine ' = * dinner ' ; hence 
Lord's meal, Lord's Supper. Cf. "God's board" for communion-table (Bk. Com. Prayer, 
1549), and "God'sbread" for the wafer, G. G. N., p. 219. That Coomes adopts this 
popular etymology is confirmed by the collocation of ' God's dines ' with * wafer-cake ' (for the 
Eucharist) in Sc. xi. 1. 206 of this play. ^ rabbit-warren. * horse. 



VIII 



] angry women of Abington 597 



Boy. I, Nicholas ; wilt not thou go see the fray ? 380 

Nich. No, indeed ; even as they brewe, so let them bake. I 
wil not thrust my hand into the flame, and ^ need not ; tis not good 
to have an oare in another mans boate ; little said is soone amended, 
and in little medling commeth great rest ; tis good sleeping in a 
whole skin; so a man might come home by Weeping Crosse 2; no, 
by lady, a friend is not so soone gotten as lost; blessed are the 
peace-makers ; they that strike with the sword^ shall be beaten with 
the scabberd. 388 

Phil. Well said, proverbs : nere another to that purpose ? 

Nic. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good 
reed.3 391 

Phil. Why to me, take heede ? 

Ni. For happy is he whom other mens harms do make to 
beware. 

Phi. O, beware, Franke ! — Slip away. Mall. — You know what 
I told ye. He hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. \Aside7\^ 
— Mother, and mistris Barnes, me thinkes you should not stand in 
hatred so hard one with the * other. 

Mi. Bar. Should I not, sir ? should I not hate a harlot, 
That robs me of my right, vilde boye ? 400 

Mi. Gou. That tytle I returne unto thy teeth, 

\Exeunt Francis and Mall.] 
And spit the name of harlot in thy face. 

Mi. Bar. Well, tis not time of night to hold out chat 
With such a scold as thou art; therefore now 
Thinke that I hate thee as I doe the devill. 405 

Mi. Gou. The devill take thee, if thou dost not, wretch ! 

Mi. Bar. Out upon thee, strumpet ! 

Mi. Gou. Out upon thee, harlot ! 

Mis. Bar. Well, I will finde a time to be reveng'd : 
Meane time He keep my daughter from thy sonne. — 410 

Where are you, minion ? how now, are yee gone ? 

1 *anl.' 

2 repent of his behaviour. Cf. Heywood, If you knoiv not, etc., ed. 1874, I. 267 (Cen- 
tury). Dyce has " Nares [Gloss, in v.) mentions three places which still retain the name, — 
one between Oxford and Banbury, another close to Stafford, the third near Shrewsbury." 

3 advice. * So g ^^ Eds. , * an. ' 



598 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Phi, She went in, mother. 

Mi. Go. Francis where are ye ? 

Mi. Ba. He is not heere. O, then, they slipt away, 
And both together ! 415 

Phi. He assure ye, no; 
My sister she went in, into the house. 

Mi. Ba. But, then, sheele out againe at the backe doore. 
And meete with him : but I will search about 

All these same fields and paths neere to my house ; 420 

They are not far I am sure, if I make haste. Exit. 

Mi. Go. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him ? 
It was when Barnses wife did scolde with me ; 
A plague on ^ her ! — Dick, why didst not thou looke to him ? 

Coo. What should I looke for him ? no, no, I looke not for him 
while 2 to morrow morning. 426 

Mi. Gou. Come, go with me to help to looke him out. 
Alas, I have nor light, nor linke, nor torche ! 
Though it be darke, I will take any paines 
To crosse this match. I prethy, Dick, away. 430 

Coo. Mistris, because I brought ye out. He bring ye home ; but, 
if I should follow, so hee might have the law on his side. 



Mi. Go. Come, tis no matter ; prethee, goe with me. \ 



Exeunt [Mistress Goursey ^;^^Coomes.] 
M. Ba. Philip, thy mothers gone to seeke thy sister, 
And in a rage, i faith : but who comes heere ? 435 

Ph. Olde master Goursey, as I thinke, tis he. 
M. Ba. Tis so, indeed. 

\_Enter Master Goursey.] 

M. Gour. Whoes there ? 
M. Bar. A friend of yours. 

M. Gou. What, master Barnes ! did ye not see my wife ? 440 
M. Bar. Yes, sir, I saw her ; she was heere even now. 
M. Gou. I doubted that ; that made me come unto you : 
But whether is she gone ? 

Phil. To seeke your sonne, who slipt away from her 

1^1, «vpon.' 2 till. 



viii] angry women of Abington 599 

To meete with Mall my sister in a place 445 

Where I appointed ; and my mother too 

Seeke for my sister ; so they both are gone : 

My mother hath a torch ; mary, your wife 

Goes darkling up and downe, and Coomes before her. 

M. Gou. I thought that knave was with her; but tis well: 450 
I pray God, they may come by nere a light, 
But both be led a darke daunce in the night ! 

Ho. Why, is my fellow Dick in the dark with my mistres ? I 
pray God, they be honest, for there may be much knaverie in the 
dark : faith, if I were there, I wold have some knavery with them. 
^Aside.~\ — Good maister, wil ye carry the torch yourself, and give 
me leave to play the blind man bufFe with my mistris ? 457 

Phil. On that condition thou wilt do thy best 
To keep thy mistresse and thy fellow Dick 

Both from my sister and thy masters sonne, 460 

I will entreate thy master let thee goe. 

Hod. O, I, I warrant ye. He have fine tricks to cousen them. 

M. Gou. Well, sir, then, go your waies ; I give you leave. 

Hod. O brave ! but where about are they ? 

Phil. About our cunny green they surely are, 465 

If thou canst find them. 

Hod. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies. 

\_Giz'es Phil, the torch, and'\ exit. 

Phi. Well, now will I to Franke and to my sister. 
Stand you two harkning neere the cunny greene. 
But sure your light in you must not be scene ; 470 

Or els let Nicholas stand afarre off with it, \_Gives Nich. the torch.~\ 
And as his life keep it from mistris Goursey. 
Shall this be done ? 

M. Bar. Phillip, it shall. 

Phi. God be with ye ! He be gone. Exit. 475 

M. Bar. Come on, master Goursey : this same is a meanes 
To make our wives friends, if they resist not. 

M. Go. Tut, sir, howsoever it shall go forward. 

M. Bar. Come, then, lets do as Phillip hath advisd. 

Exeu?it \toward the cunny greeneJ^ 



6oo A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. | 

I 
[Scene Ninth.^ The Cunny Greene.^ 
Enter Mall. 

Mai. Heere is the place where Phillip bid me stay- 
Till Francis came; but wherefore did my brother ^ 
Appoint it heere ? why in the cunny borough ? 
He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye. 

Well, heere He set me downe under this tree, 5 ; 

And thinke upon the matter all alone. 

Good Lord, what pritty things these cunnies are ! | 

How finely they do feed till they be fat. 

And then what a sweet meate a cunny is ! I 

And what smooth skins they have, both black and gray ! 10 

They say they run more in the night then day : 
What is the reason ? marke ; why, in the light 
They see more passengers then in the night j 
For harmfuU men many a haye^ do set, 

And laugh to see them tumble in the net; 1 5 

And they put ferrets in the holes, — fie, fie! — 

And they go up and downe where conniees lye; ^ 

And they lye still, they have so little wit : 

I marvell the warriner will suffer it ; ' ■< 

Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves 20 

Do give consent to catch these prettie elfes. ' 

How if the warriner should spie me here ? ' ; 

He would take me for a conny I dare sweare. 1 

But when that Francis comes, what will he say ? \ 

' Looke, boy, there lyes a conney in my way ! ' 25 ! 

But, soft, a light ! whose that ? soule, my mother ! I 

Nay, then, all hid : i faith, she shall not see me ; j 

He play bo peepe with her behind this tree. j 

\_Enter Mistresse Barnes, with a torch.~\ ; 

Mis. Ba. I marvell where this wench doth * hide her selfe j 

So closely ; I have searcht in many a bush. 30 

1 E., Act IV. Sc. I. 2^2, bother. 

' A kind of net for catching rabbits, — usually stretched before their holes. Dyce. 

*2 I, *do.' 



ix] angry women of Abington 60 1 

Mai. Belike my mother tooke me for a thrush. \^A5ide,'\ — 

Mis. Bar. Shees hid in this same warren, He lay money. 

Mai. Close as a rabbet sucker ^ from an olde conney. \Aside.'\ 

Mi. Bar. O God, I would to God that I could find her! 
I would keepe her from her loves toyes yet. 35 

Mai. I, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. \Aside.\ 

Mi. Ba. What a vilde girle tis, that would hav't so young ! 

Mai. A murren take that desembling tongue ! 
Ere your calves teeth were out, you thought it long. \_A5ide.'\ 

Mi. Bar. But, minion, yet He keepe you from the man. 40 

Mall. To save a lye, mother, say, if you can. \Aside.'\ 

Mi. Bar. Well, now to looke for her. 

Mai. I, theres the spight : 
What trick shall I now have to scape her light ? \Aside.'\ 

Mi. Bar. Whose there ? what, minion, is it you ? — 45 

Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to ! 
But I am glad I found her, though I was afraide. \_Aside.'\ 

Come on your wayes ; you are^ a handsome maide ! 
Why [steal] you foorth a doores so late at night ? 
Why, whether go ye ? come, stand still, I say. 50 

Mai. No, indeed, mother; this is my best way. 

M. Ba. Tis not the best way ; stand by me, I tell yee. 

Mall. No ; you would catch me, mother, — O, I smell ye ! 

Mi. Bar. Will ye not stand still? 

Mai. No, by ladie, no. 55 

Mis. Bar. But I will make ye. 

Mai. Nay, then, trip and goe. 

Mi. Bar. Mistresse, He make ye wearie ere I have done. 

Mai. Faith, mother, then. He trie how you can runne. 

Mis. Bar. Will ye ? 60 

Mai Yes, faith. Exeunt. 

Enter [Franke and Boy.] 

Fran. Mai, sweet heart. Mall ! what, not a word ? 

Boy. A little further ; call againe. 

Fran. Why, Mai ! I prethie, speake ; why, Mai, I say ! 

1 a young rabbit. ^ 2 ^j *you'r.' 



6o2 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

I know thou art not farre, if thou wilt not i speake ; 65 

Why, Mai ! — 

But now I see shees in her merry vaine, 

To make me call, and put me to more paine. 

Well, I must beare with her ; sheel beare with me : 

But I will call, least that it be not so. — 70 

What, Mai ! what. Mall, I say ! — Boy, are we right ? 

Have we not mist the way this same darke night ? 

Boy. Masse, it may be so : as I am true man, 
I have not seen a cunny since I came; 

Yet at the cunny-borow we should meete. 75 

But, harke ! I heare the trampling of some feete. 

Fran. It may be so, then ; therefore lets lye close. 

\Enter Mistresse Goursey a7id Coomes.] 

Mis. Gou. Where art thou, Dicke ? 

Coo. Where am I, quoth a ! mary, I may be where any body 
will say I am ; eyther in France, or at Rome, or at Jerusalem, they 
may say I am, for I am not able to disprove them, because I can- 
not tell where I am. 82 

Mi. Gou. O, what a blindfold walke have we had, Dicke, 
To seeke my sonne! and yet I cannot finde him. 

Coo. Why, then, mistresse, lets goe home. 85 

Ml. Gou. Why, tis so darke we shall not finde the way. 

Fran. I pray God, ye may not, mother, till it be day ! \^Aside.'\ 

Coo. Sbloud, take heed, mistris, heres a tree. 

Mh. Go. Lead thou the way, and let me hold by thee. 

Bo. Dick Coome, what difference is there between a blind man 
and he that cannot see ? 91 

Fra. Peace, a poxe on thee ! 

Coo. Swounds, some body spake. 

Ml. Gou. Dicke, looke about ; 
It may be here we may finde them out. 95 

Coo. I see the glimpse ^ of some body heere. — 
And ye be a sprite. He fraie the bug beare. — 
There a goes, mistresse. 

1 Q I, omits * not'; but Q 2. is right : " Even if you won't speak I know you are lying 
in wait for me." 2 {^tos., glimpes. 



x] angry women of Abington 603 

Mi. Gour. O sir, have I spide you ? 

ir. A plague on the boy ! twas he that descried ^ me. Exeunt. 

[Scene Tenth. A Grove in the Fields between the Cunny 

Greene and the ForestI\ 

\_E?iter Philip.] 

Phi. How Hke a beauteous lady, maskt in blacke 
Lookes that same large circumference of heaven ! 
The skie, that was so faire three houres agoe, 
Is in three houres become an Ethiope ; 

And being angrie at her beauteous change, 5 

She will not have one of those pearled starres 
To blab her sable metamorphesis : ^ 
Tis very darke. I did appoint my sister 
To meete me at the cunny berrie below. 

And Francis too ; but neither can I see. 10 

Belike my mother hapned on that place. 
And fraide them from it, and they both are now 
Wandring about the ^ fields : how shall I finde them ? 
It is so darke, I scarce can see my hand : 

Why, then. He hollow for them — no, not so; 15 

So will his voice betray him to our mothers 
And if he answere, and bring them where he is. 
What shall I, then, do ? it must not be so — 
Sbloud,4 it must be so ; how else, I pray ? 

Shall I stand gaping heere all night till day, 20 

And then nere the neere ? ^ — So ho, so ho ! 

\^Enter Will.] 

Wil. So ho ! I come : where are ye t where art thou \ here ! 

Phi. How now, Franke, where hast thou^ been ? 

Wil. Franke! what Franke.? sbloud, is sir Raph mad .? \^Aside\. — 
Heeres the bow." 25 

1 exposed. ^ Q I, met amor phes'ie. For the figure cf. R. and J., I. v., " Like a rich 

jewel in an Ethiop's ear," etc. ^ Q i, ' these.' * Q i, sblould. 5 nearer. 

6 Not in Q I . '' The scene is therefore the grove where Sir Raph had 

engaged to await Will's return, Sc. vii. ; not the warren, as E. has it. 



6o4 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. - 

Phi, I have not been much private with that voice : 

Me thinke Franke Goursey talke and his doth tell me ' 

I am mistaken j especially by his bow ; ] 
Franke had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow, 

And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. \^Aside\ 30 

Doost thou heare, fellow ? I perceive by thee 

That we are both mistaken : I tooke thee 

For one thou art not ; likewise thou tookst me ! 

For sir Raph Smith, but sure I am not he : | 

And so, farewell; I must go seeke my friend. — 35 ; 

So ho! {_Exit.-\ j 

Wil. So ho, so ho ! nay, then, sir Raph, so whoore ! ; 

For a whore she was sure, if you had her here I 

So late. Now, you are sir Raphe Smith ; I 

Well do ye counterfeit and change your voyce, 40 | 
But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis ? 

Belike that Francis cussend him of his wench, j 

And he conceals himselfe to finde her out ; ■ 

Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go i 
And helpe him ring his peale of so ho, so ho ! \_Exit.'\ 45 ; 

Efiter Franke.^ ^ 

Fra. A plague on Coomes ! a plague upon the boy ! j 

A plague too — not on my mother for an hundreth pound ! ^ ; 

Twas time to runne; and yet I had not thought ; 
My mother could have followed me so close, 

Her legges with age I thought had foundered ; 50 | 

She made me quite runne through a quickset hedge, ; 

Or she had taken me. Well, I may say, ; 
I have runne through the briers for a wenche ; 

And yet I have her not, — the woorse lucke mine. \ 

Me thought I heard one hollow here about ; • 55 i 

I judge it Philip : O, the slave will laugh ; 

When as he heares how that my mother scarde me ! j 

1 

1 E. mistakenly makes this ' Act. IV. Sc. ii., Another Fart of the Warren ' ,• but Frank ; 

has run from the warren to the grove where Sir Raph is waiting for his bow. i 

2^2, hound, i 

\ 



x] angry women of Abington 605 

Well, heere He stand untill I heare him hollow, 
And then He answere him ; he is not farre. 

\_Enter Sir Raph Smith.] 

Ra. My man is hollowing for me up and downe, 6o 

And yet I cannot meet with him. — So ho ! 

Frank. So ho ! 

Ra. Why, what, a poxe, wert thou so neere me, man, 
And wouldst ^ not speake ? 

Fra. Sbloud, ye are very hot. ^ 05 

Rap. No, sir, I am colde enough with staying here 
For such a knave as you. 

Fra. Knave ! how now, Phillip ? 
Art mad, art mad ? 

Ra. Why, art not thou my man 7° 

That went to fetch my bowe.^ 

Fra. Indeed, a bowe 
Might shoote me ten bowes downe^the weather so: 
I your man ! 

Ra. What art thou, then ? 75 

Fran. A man : but whats thy name ? 

Rap. Some call me Raph. 

Franke. Then, honest Raph, farewell.^ 

Ra. Well said, familiar Will ! plaine Raph, i faith. 

\Hollow within Phillip and Will.''] 

Fran. There calles my man. 80 

Ra. But there goes mine away ; 
And yet He heare what this next call will say, 

\_Goes out toward the fields. '\ 
And here He tarrie till he call againe. 

\ Enter Will.] 
Wil. So ho! 
Fran. So ho ! where art thou, Phillip ? ^S 

Wil. Sbloud,5 Philip ! r ,-j -y 

But now he calde^ me Francis : this is fine. S^Astde.\ 

1 Q 2, ivouldn. '^ So Q 2. Line wanting in Q I. ^ q ^ omits this line. 

4 This stage-direction occurs after 1. 75 i" S^os. ^ ^tos., Sblould. 6 q 2, clade. 



6o6 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc 

Fran. Why studiest thou ? I prethy, tell me, Philip, 
Where the wench ^ is. 

Wil. Even now he askt me Francis for the wench, 90 

And now he asks^ me Phillip for the wench. \_Aside\ 

Well, sir Raph, I must needes tell ye now, 
Tis not for your ^ credit to be foorth 
So late a wenching in this order. 

Fran. Whats this ? so late a wenching, doth he say ? \_Aside'\. — 
Indeed, tis true I am thus late a wenching, 96 

But I am forc'st to wench without a wench. 

Wil. Why, then, you might have tane your bow at first. 
And gone and kilde a bucke, and not have been 
So long a drabbing, and be nere the neere. 1 00 

Fran. Swounds, what a pussell am I in this night ! 
But yet He put this fellow farther [off] * \^Aside\. — 

Doost thou heare, man ? I am not sir Raph Smith, 
As thou doost thinke I am ; but I did meete him. 
Even as thou saiest, in pursuite of a wench. 105 

I met the wench to, and she^ askt for thee, 
Saying twas thou that wert her love, her deare. 
And that sir Raph was not an honest knight 
To traine her thether, and to use her so. 

Wil. Sbloud, my wench ! swounds, were he ten sir Raphs — 

Fran. Nay, tis true, looke to it ; and so, farewell. Exit, ill 

. Wil. Indeed, I do love Nan, our darie maide : 
And hath he traine [d] her forth to that intent. 
Or for another ? I carrie his crossebow. 

And he doth crosse me, shooting in my bow. 115 

What shall I do? {^Exit.-\ 

[Scene Eleventh. The Fields between the Grove and the 

Forest.~\ 

„, .„. „ , , Enter Phillip.^ 

Philhp. So ho ! 

Raph. So ho ! 

1 2 I, ivhench. ^ Q i> ^^'^f > Q ^j ^^^^- * Q ^ omits. 

* Eds. substitute * question,' evidently without sufficient reason. ^ S ^ omits. 

^ E. makes no new scene j but see Sc. x. 1. 30. 



xi] angry women of Abington 607 

Phil. Frances, art thou there ? 

Ra. No, heres no Francis. Art thou Will, my man ? 

Phil. Will foole your man, Will gose ^ your man ! 5 

My backe, sir, scornes to weare your liverie. 

Raph. Nay, sir, I moov'de but such a question to you, 
And 2 it hath not disparegd you, I hope; 
Twas but mistaking ; such a night as this 
May well deceive a man. God boye,^ sir. \_Exit.'\ 10 

Phil. Gods will, tis sir Raph Smith, a vertuous knight ! 
How gently entertaines he my hard answer ! 
Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly : 
I crie him mercie. Well, but all this while 
I cannot finde a Francis. — Francis, ho! 15 

\_Enter Will.] 

PTil. Francis, ho ! O, you call Francis now ! 
How have ye usde my Nan ? come, tell me, how. 

Phil. Thy Nan ! what Nan ? 

Wil. I, what Nan, now ! say, do you not seeke a wench .? 

Phi. Yes, I do. 20 

IVil. Theft, sir, that is she. 

Phil. Art not thou [he] I met withall before ? 

TVil. Yes, sir ; and you did counterfeit before. 
And said to me you were not sir Raph Smith. 

Phil. No more I am not. I met sir Raph Smith ; 25 

Even now he askt me if I saw his man. 

mi. O, fine ! 

Phil. Why, sirra, thou art much deceived in me : 
Good faith, I am not he thou thinkst I am. 

JVil. What are ye, then ? 30 

Phi. Why, one that seekes one Francis and a wench. 

JVil. And Francis seekes one Phillip and a wench. 

Phil. How canst thou tell ? 

JVil. I met him seeking Phillip and a wench. 
As I was seeking sir Raph and a wench. 35 

Phil. Why, then, I know the matter: we met crosse, 

1 goose. Q I, asgoe. ^ Q 2, Had. 3 be wi' ye. 



6o8 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

And so we mist ; now here we finde our losse. 
Well, if thou wilt, we two will keepe togither, 
And so we shall meet right with one or other. 

Wil. I am content : but, do you heare me, sir ? 40 

Did not sir Raph Smith aske yee for a wench ? 

Phi. No, I promise thee, nor did he looke 
For any but thy selfe, as I could gesse. 

Wil. Why, this is strange : but, come, sir, lets away ; 
I feare that we shall walke here till it be day. Exeunt. 45 

Enter Boy.^ 

[^iTy.] O God, I have runne so far into the winde, that I have 
runne myselfe out of winde ! They say a man is neere his end 
when he lackes breath ; and I am at the end of my race, for I can 
run no farther : then here I be in my breath bed, not in my death 

Enter Coomes. *- 'J -^ 

Coom. They say men moyle and toile for a poore living; so I 
moyle and toile, and am living, I thanke God ; in good time be it 
spoken. It had been better for me my mistresse^ angell had beene 
light, for then perhaps it had not lead me into tiiis darknesse. 
Well, the divell never blesses a man better, when he purses up 
angels by owlight : I ranne through a hedge to take the boy, but I 
stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. \Falls?^ Swounds, a plague 
on that clod, that mowlhil, that ditch, or what the devil so ere it 
were, for a man cannot see what it was ! Well, I would not for 
the prize of my sword and buckler any body should see me in this 
taking, for it would make me but cut off their legges for laughing 
at me. Well, downe I am, and downe I meane to be, because I 
am wearie ; but to tumble downe thus, it was no parte of my mean- 
ing : then, since I am downe, here He rest me, and no man shall 

remoove me. _ t-. 6 s 

Enter Hodge. 

Hodg. O, I have sport in coney, i faith ! I have almost burst 
myselfe with laughing at mistresse Barnes. She was following of 

^ E. makes this * Act IV., Sc. iii., The Open Fields'' ,• but the present scene began with 
Philip's entry, forty-five lines earlier. 2 Of course * mistress.' 



XI] angry women of Abington 609 

her daughter ; and I, hearing her, put on my fellow Dickes sword 
and buckler voyce and his swounds and sbloud words, and led her 
such a daunce in the darke as it passes. ' Heere she is,' quoth I. 
'Where' ? quoth she. 'Here,' quoth I. O, it hath been a brave 
here and there night ! but, O, what a soft natured thing the durt 
is! how it would endure my hard treading, and kisse my feete for 
acquaintance ! and how courteous and mannerly were the clods ^ to 
make me stumble onelie of purpose to entreate me lie downe and 
rest me ! But now, and I could find my fellow Dicke, I would 
play the knave with him honestly, i faith. Well, I will grope in 
the darke for him, or He poke with my stafFe, like a blinde man, to 
prevent a ditch. He stumbles on Dick Coomes.^ 

Coom. Whose that, with a poxe ? 80 

Hod. Who art thou, with a pestilence? 

Coom. Why, I am Dicke Coomes. 

Hodg. What, have I found thee, Dicke ? nay, then, I am for yee, 
Dicke. \As'ide^ — Where are ye, Dicke? 

\A5sumi71g MisTREssE Goursey's voice.'\ 

Coom. What can I tell where I am ? 85 

Hodg. Can yee not tell ? come, come, ye waight on your 
mistresse well ! come on your wayes ; I have sought you till I am 
wearie, and calde ye till I am hoarse : good Lord, what a jaunt I 
have had this night, hey ^ ho ! 89 

Coom. 1st you, mistresse, that came over me? sbloud, twere a good 
deed to come over you for this nights worke. I cannot affoord all this 
paines for an angell : I tell ye true ; a kisse were not cast away upon 
a good fellow, that hath deserved more that way then a kisse, if 
your kindnesse would afPoord it him : what, shall I have it, mistresse? 

Hodg. Fie, fie, I must not kisse my man. 95 

Coom. Nay, nay, nere stand ; shall I, shall I ? nobody sees : say 
but I shall, and He smacke yee* soundly, i faith. 

Hodg. Away, bawdie man ! in trueth. He tell your maister. 

Coom. My master ! go to, neere tell me of my maister : he may 
pray for them that may, he is past it ; and for mine own part, I can 
do somewhat that way, I thanke God ; I am not now to learne, 
and tis your part to have your whole desire. 102 

1 2 I, clowdes. 2 Not in 2 I. 3 ^ i^ < ho.' * 2 I, ' it.' 



6io A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Hod. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you : would you tempt your 
mistresse to lewdnesse ? 

Coom. To lewdnesse ! no, by my troth, thers no such matter 
in't, it is for kindnesse ; and, by my troth, if you like my gentle 
offer, you shall have what courteously I can afFoord ye. 107 

Hod. Shall I indeed, Dicke ? I faith, if I thought nobody would 
see — 

Coom. Tush, feare not that ; swones, they must have cattes eyes, 
then. Ill 

Hod. Then, kisse me, Dick. 

Coom. A kinde wenche, i faith! \^Aside\. — Where are yee, 
mistresse ? 

Hodge. Heere, Dick. O, I am in the darke ! Dick, go about. 

Coom. Nay, He grope ^ sure : where are yee now ? ^ 116 

Hodge. Heere. 

Coom. A plague on this poast ! I would the carpenter had bin 
hangd that set it up so.^ — Where are yee now ? 

Hod. Heere. Exit. 120 

Coo. Here ! O, I come. [^a-/V.] A plague on it, I am in a 
pond, mistres ! 

Hod. ^re-entering.'] Ha, ha ! I have led him into a pond. — 
Where art thou, Dick ? 

Coomes. [within.] Up to the middle in a pond ! 125 

Hod. Make a boate of thy buckler, then, and swim out. Are 
yee so hot, with a pox ? would you kisse my mistresse ? coole ye 
there, then, good Dick Coomes. O, when he comes forth, the 
skirts of his blew coate will dropp like a paint-house !^ O, that I 
could see, and not be seene, how he would spaniell it, and shake 
himselfe when he comes out of the pond ! But He be gone ; for 
now heele fight with a flye, if he but buz ^ in his eare. Exit. 132 

[Re-enter Coomes. 

Coom. Heeres so hoing with a plague ! so hang, and ye wil, for I 
have bin almost drownd. A pox of your lips,^ and ye call this 
kissing ! Yee talke of a drownd rat, but twas time to swim like a 

1 g I, throive. 3 go Q 2. Q I, ' for me.' ^ Q !> huze. 

2 So Q 2. Eds. omit. * pent-house. * S *> 'stones.' 



XI 



] angry women of Abington 6 1 1 



dog ; I had bin served like a drowned cat els. I would he had digd 
his grave that digd the pond ! my feete were foule indeed, but a 
lesse pale then a pond would have served my turne to wash them. 
A man shall be served thus alwayes, when he followes any of these 
females; but tis my kinde heart that makes me thus forward in 
kindnes unto them : well, God amend them, and make them thank- 
full to them that would do them pleasure. I am not drunke, I 
would ye should ^ know it; and yet I have drunke more then will 
do me good, for I might have had a pumpe set up with as^ good 
March beere as this was, and nere set up an alebush for the matter. 
Well, I am somewhat in wroth, I must needs say ; and yet I am 
not more angrie then wise, nor more wise then angrie but He fight 
with the next man I meete, and it be but for luck sake; and if he 
love to see him selfe hurt, let him bring light with him ; He do it by 
darkling els, by Gods dines. Well, heere will I walke, whoso ever 
sayes nay. 151 

Enter Nicholas \_with a torch]^, 

Nic. He that worse may, must holde the candle ; but my maister 
is not so wise as God might have made him. He is gone to seeke 
a hayre in a hennes nest, a needle in a bottle of haye, which is as 
sildome scene as a black swan : he is gone to seeke my yong mis- 
tresse ; and I thinke she is better lost then found, for who so ever 
hath her, hath but a wet eele by the taile. But they may do as they 
list ; the law is in their owne hands ; but, and they would be ruld 
by me, they should set her on the leland,^ and bid the divell split 
her; beshrew her fingers, she hath made me watch past mine hower; 
but He watch her a good turne for it. 161 

Coom, How, whose that ? Nicholas ! — So, first come, first servd ; 
I am for him. — How now, proverbe, proverbe ? sbloud, howe now, 
proverbe ? 

Ni. My name is Nicholas, Richard ; and I knowe your meaning, 
and I hope ye meane no harme : I thanke ye, I am the better for 
your asking. 167 

Coo. Where have you been a whoring thus late, ha ? 

1 Q I, * should well.' 2 q j^ « I haue had a Pumpe set vp, as good." 

3 H. and E., * lee-land.' But the context indicates ' lealand,' the open fields. 



6i2 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Ni, Master Richard, the good wife would not seeke her daughter 
in the oven unlesse she had been there her selfe : but, good Lord, 
you are knuckle deep in durt ! — I warrant, when he was in, he 
swore Walsingham,^ and chaft terrible for the time. — Looke, the 
water drops from you as fast as hops. 173 

Coom. What needst thou to care, whipper-jenny,^ tripe-cheekes ^ ? 
out, you fat asse ! 

Ni. Good words cost nought, ill wordes corrupts good manners, 
Richard : for a hasty man never wants woe ; and I had thought you 
had bin my friend ; but I see al is not gold that glisters ; ther's fals- 
hood in fellowship; amicus certus in re certa cernitur ; time and truth 
tries all; and tis an olde proverbe, and not so old as true, bought wit 
is* best; I can see day at a little hole; I know your minde as well 
as though I were within you; tis ill halting before a criple: go to, 
you seek to quarrel ; but beware of had I wist ^ ; so long goes the pot 
to the water, at length it comes home broken^; I know you are as 
good a man as ever drew sword, or as was ere girt in a girdle, or as 
ere went on neats leather, or as one shall see upon a summers day, 
or as ere lookt man in the face, or as ere trode on Gods earth, or as 
ere broke bread or drunk drinke ; but he is proper that hath proper 
conditions ; but be not you like the cowe, that gives a good sope of 
milke, and casts it downe with her "* heeles ; I speake plainly, for 
plaine dealing is a jewel, and he that useth it shal dye a begger; 
well, that happens in an houre, that happens not in seaven yeeres ; a 
man is not so soone whole as hurt ; and you should kill a man, you 
would kisse his — well, I say little, but I thinke the more. — Yet 
He give him good words ; tis good to hold a candle before the 
devell ; yet, by Gods me,^ He take no wrong, if he had a head as 
big as Brasse,^ or lookt as high as Poules steeple. \_Aside.'] 197 

Coo. Sirra, thou grashoper, that shalt skip from my sword as from a 
sith ; He cut thee out in coUops, and egs, in steekes, in sliste beefe, 
and frye thee with the fire I shall strike from the pike of thy buckler. 

Nich. I, Brag's a good dog; threatned folkes live long. 201 

1 Perhaps he swore by our Lady of Walsingham, — in Norfolk. Dyce. 

2 Whip-her-jenny : a game of cards. H. ^ Q i, * tripe-cheeke. ' ^ Q i,* is ?i>f best.' 
^ " If I had only known in time ! " Cf. Secunda Pastorum (Towneley), 1. 93. 

6 Cf. Secunda Pastorum, 1. 318. ^ q i^ hh. » So Qtos. H. and E. read 'dines.' 

9 gy. a proverbial allusion to the famous Brazen-head .? Dyce. 



xi] angry women of Abington 613 

Coo. What say ye, sir ? 

Nic. Why, I say not so much as How do ye ? 

Coo. Do ye not so, sir ? 

Nic. No, indeed, what so ere I thinke; and thought is free. 205 

Coo. You whoreson wafer-cake, by Gods dines,i He crush yee 
for this ! 

Ni. Give an inch, and youle take an elle ; I wil not put my 
finger in a hole, I warrant ye : what, man ! nere crow so fast, for a 
bhnde man may kill a hare ; I have knowne when a plaine fellow 
hath hurt a fencer, so I have : what ! a man may be as slow as a 
snaile, but as fierce as a lyon and he be mooved ; indeed, I am 
patient, I must needs say, for patience in adversity brings a man to 
the Three Cranes in the Ventree.^ 214 

Coo. Do ye heare ? set downe your torch ; drawe, fight, I am 
for ye. 

N'l. And I am for ye too, though it be from this midnight to the 
next morne. 

Coo. Where be your tooles ? 

Nic. Within a mile of an oake, sir; hee's a proud horse will not 
carry his owne provender, I warrant ye. 221 

Coo. Now am I in my quarrelling humor, and now can I say 
nothing but Sownes, draw ! but He untrus, and then have to it. 

Enter \s ever all j\ Hodge and Boy. L -^' ^'J 

Hod. Whose there? boy! honest boy, well met: where hast 
thou bin ? 225 

Boy. O Hodge, Dicke Coomes hath been as good as a crye of 
hounds, to make a breathd ^ hayre of me ! but didst thou see my 
master ? 

Hod. I met him even now, and he askt me for thee, and he is 
gone up and downe, whoing like * an owle for thee. 230 

Boy. Owle, ye asse ! 

Hod. Asse ! no, nor glasse, for then it had been Owleglasse ^ : 
but whose that, boy ? 

1 See note, Sc. viii. 1. 354. 2 h., < Vintry.' ^ Q i, hreath. 4 q j omits. 

^ The hero of the popular German jest-book (^Eulenspiegel), which was translated into 
English at a very early period ; see Gifford's note on Jonson's Worhy iv, 60, and Nare's Gloss. 
in V. Dyce. 



6i4 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Bo. By the masse, tis our Coomes and Nicolas ; and it seemes 
they are providing to fight. 235 

Hod. Then, we shall have fine sport, i faith. Sirra, lets stand 
close, and when they have fought a bout or two, weele run away 
with the torch, and leave them to fight darkling ; shall we ? 

Boy. Content ; He get the torch : stand close. 239 

Coo. So, now my back hath roome to reach : I doe not love to be 
lac't 1 in, when I goe to lace ^ a rascall. I pray God, Nicholas proove 
not a fly : 2 it would do me good to deale with a good man now, 
that we might have halfe a dozen good smart stroakes. Ha, I have 
seen the day I could have daunst in my fight, on, two, three, foure, 
and five, on the head of him ; six, seaven, eight, nine, and ten, on 
the sides of him ; and, if I went so far as fifteene, I warrant I 
shewed 3 him a trick of one and twentie ; but I have not fought this 
foure dayes, and I lacke a little pra6):ise of my warde ; but I shall 
make a shift : ha, close \^Aside\ . — Are ye disposed, sir ? 249 

Nic. Yes, indeed, I feare no colours : * change sides, Richard. 

Coo. Change the gallowes ! He see thee hangd ^ first. 

Nich. Well, I see the foole will not leave his bable^ for the 
Tower of London. 

Coo. Foole, ye roge ! nay, then, fall to it. 

Nic. Good goose, bite not. 255 

Coo. Sbloud, how pursey I am ! Well, I see exercise is all : I 
must practise my weapons oftner; I must have a goale or two 
at foote-ball before I come to my right kind \_Ande\ . — Give me 
thy hand, Nicholas : thou art a better man then I took thee for, 
and yet thou art not so good a man as I. 260 

N'l. You dwell by ill neighbours, Richard ; that makes yee praise 
your selfe. 

Coo. Why, I hope thou wilt say I am a man ? 

Ni. Yes, He say so, if I should see yee^ hangd. 264 

Coo. Hangd, ye roge! nay, then, have at yee. ^While they fight .^ 
exeunt Hodge, and Boy with the torch^ Swones,^ the light is gone ! 

Ni. O Lord, it is as darke as pitch ! 

1 Q I, ' last ' : and Mase.' * Q ^t, coulers. "^ Q ^t y°"- 

2 Q I, ' silly.' ^ Q a> bandg. ^ Q ^j siooses. 

3 Q I , < shew. ' ® By idiom * bauble ' ; by sense * babble. ' 



I 



xii] angry women of Abington 615 

Coo. Well, heere lie lye, with my buckler thus, least striking up 
and downe at randall,i the roge might hurt me, for I cannot see to 
save it, and He hold my peace, least my voyce should bring him 
where I am. \Lies down and covers himself with his buckler. '\ 271 

Nic. Tis good to have a cloake for the raine ; a bad shift is bet- 
ter than none at all ; He sit heere, as if I were as dead as a doore naile. 

[Scene Twelfth. The Grove."] 

Enter M. Barnes and M. Goursey.'* 

M, Gou. Harke ! theres one holloes. 

M. Bar. And theres another. 

M. Gour. And every where we come, I heere some hollo. 
And yet it is our haps to meete with none. 

M. Bar. I marvell where your Hodge is, and my man. 5 

M. Gour. I, and our wives ; we cannot meet with them. 
Nor with the boye, nor Mall, nor Franke, nor Phillip, 
Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we nere stood still. 
Well, I am very angry with my wife. 

And she shall finde I am not pleasd with her, 10 

If we meete nere so soone : but tis my hope.^ 
She hath had as blind a journey ont* as we ; 
Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be ! 

M. Bar. This is but short liv'de envie,^ maister Goursey : 
But, come, what say yee to my poUicie ? ^ 15 

M. Gou. I faith, tis good, and we will pra^ise it ; 
But, sir, it must be handeled cunningly. 
Or all is mard ; our wives have subtill heads, 
And they will soone perceive a drift devise. 

Enter Sir Raphe Smith. 
Raph. So ho! 20 

M. Gour. So ho ! 

2 From the * cunny greene ' (see Sc. viii., end) having lost Nicholas and the torch en 
route. E. mistakenly includes this in the previous scene. 

3 Qtos, hap. "* Q 2, ' out.' 5 spite. ^ The sham quarrel of Sc. xiv. 1. 115. 



30 



35 



They hollo within. 



6i6 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Raph. Whose there ? 

M. Bar. Heers on [e] or two. 

Raph. Is Will there ? 

M. Bar. No. Phillip ? 25 

M. Gour. Franke? 

Raph. No, no. — 
Was ever man deluded thus like me.? 
I thinke some spirit leads me thus amisse, 
As I have often heard that some have bin 
Thus in the nights. 
But yet this mases me ; where ere I come, 
Some askes me still for Franke or Phillip, 
And none of them can tell me where Will is. \_Aside.'\ 

Wil. So ho ! 

Phil. So ho ! 

Hodg. So ho 

Boy. So ho ! 

Rap. Sownes, now I heere foure hollo at the least ! 
One had a little voice ; then thats the wench 40 

My man hath lost : well, I will answer all. \_Aside.'\ 

So ho ! 

\_Enter Hodge.] 

Hodg. Whope, whope ! 

Raph. Whose there ? Will ? 44 

Hod. No, sir ; honest Hodge : but, I pray yee, sir, did yee not 
meete with a boye with a torche ? he is runne away from me, a 
plague on him ! 

Raph. Hey day, from Franke and Phillip to a torche. 
And to a boye ! nay, sownes, then, hap as twill. \_Aside.~\ 

[^Exeunt Sir Raph and Hodge severally.^ 

M. Gour. Who goes there ? 50 

{^Enter Will.] 
Wil. Gesse heere. 
M. Bar. Phillip ? 

Wil. Phillip ! no, faith ; my names Will, — ill will, for I was 
never worse : I was even now with him, and might have been still, 



xii] angry women of Abington 617 

but that I fell into a ditch and lost him, and now I am going up 
and downe to seeke him. c6 

M. Gor. What wouldst thou do with him ? 

Wil. Why, I would have him go with me to my maisters. 

M. Gou. Whose thy maister ? 

Wil. Why, sir Raphe Smith; and thether he promist me he 
would come; if he keepe his worde, so tis. 6 1 

M. Ba. What was he^ doing when thou first found ^ him ? 

PTil. Why, he holloed for one Francis, and Francis hollod for 
him ; I hallod for my maister, and my maister for me; but we mist 
still, meeting contrary, Phillip and Francis with me and my maister, 
and I and my maister with Philip and Franke. 66 

M. Gou. Why, wherefore is sir Raphe so late abroade ? 

Wil. Why, he ment to kill a buck, — He say so to save his 
honestie, but my Nan was his marke \^Jside\ — and when ^ he sent 
me for his bow, and when I came, I hollod for him ; but I never 
saw such luck to misse him, it hath almost made me mad. 71 

M. Bar. Well, stay with us ; perhaps sir Raphe and he 
Will come anon : harke ! I do heere one hollo. 

Enter Phillip \from the fields. ~^ 

Phil. Is this broad waking in a winters night ? 
I am broad walking in a winters night, — 75 

Broad indeed, because I am abroad, — 
But these broad fields methinks are not so broad 
That they may keepe me foorth of narrow ditches. 
Heers a hard world ! 

For I can hardly keep myself upright in it : 80 

I am marvellous dutifull — but, so ho ! 

Wil So ho ! 

Phil. Whose there ? 

Wil. Heeres Will. 

Ph. What, Will ! how scapst thou .? 85 

Wil. What, sir? 

Ph. Nay, not hanging, but drowning : wert thou in a pond or a 
ditche ? 

1 So Q 2. Q I *a.' 2 Eds., 'foundst.' » Eds. omit. 



6i8 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Wil. A pestilence on it ! ist you, Phillip ? no, faith, I was but 
durty a little : but heeres one or two askt for yee. 90 

Phil. Who be they, man ? 

M. Bar. Philip, tis I and maister Goursey. 

Phi. Father, O father, I have heard them say 
The dayes of ignorance are past and done ; 

But I am sure the nights of ignorance 95 

Are not yet past, for this is one of them. 
But wheres my sister ? 

M. Bar. Why, we cannot tell. 

Ph. Wheres Francis ? 

M. Gour. Neither saw we him. 100 

Phi. Why, this is fine. 
What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you, 
Nor I nor she, nor you and I, tilP now. 
Can meet, could meet, or nere, I thinke, shall meete ! 
Cal ye this woing ? no, tis Christmas sport 105 

Of Hob man blind : ^ all blind, all seek to catch, 
All misse, — but who comes heere ? ^ 

Enter Franke a?id his Boye [_zvith torch'] . 

Fra. O, have I catcht yee, sir ? it was your dooing 
That made me have this pretty daunce to night ; 
Had not you spoake, my mother had not scard me : 1 10 

But I will swinge ye for it. 

Phil. Keepe the kings peace ! 

Fran. How ! art thou become a constable ? 
Why, Phillip, where hast thou bin all this while ? 

Ph. Why, where you were not : but, I pray, whers my sister ? 

Fran. Why, man, I saw her not; but I have sought her 116 
As I should seeke 

Phil. A needle, have yee not ? 
Why, you, man, are the needle that she seekes 
To worke withall. Well, Francis, do you heere? 120 

1 Q I, tell. 2 Blind-man's-buff. 

3^2 prints 1. 105 as of fourteen syllables ending with <* Hob man blind," and line io6 
as of twelve syllables ending with ** heere." 



xiii] angry women of Abington 619 

You must not answere so, that you have sought her ; 
But have yee found her ? faith, and if you have, 
God give yee joy of that ye found with her ! 

Fra} I saw her not : how could I finde her ? 

M. Gou. Why, could yee misse from maister Barnses house 
Unto his cunnyberry ? 126 

Fran. Whether I could or no, father, I did. 

Phil. Father, I did ! well, Franke, wilt thou beleeve me. 
Thou dost not know how much this same doth greeve me : 
Shall it be said thou mist so plaine a way, 130 

When as so faire a wenche did for thee stay ? 

Fra. Sownes, man ! 

Phi. Sownes, man ! and if thou hadst bin blinde, 
The cunny-borow thou needst must finde. 

I tell thee, Francis, had it bin my case, 135 

And I had bin a woer in thy place, 
I would have laide my head unto the ground. 
And sented out my wenches way, like a hound ; 
I would have crept upon my knees all night. 

And have made the flint stones linckes to give me light. 140 

Nay, man, I would 

Fran. Good Lord, what you would doe ! 
Well, we shall see one day how you can woe. 

M. Gor. Come, come, we see that we have all bin crost; 
Therefore lets go, and seeke them we have lost. Exeunt. 

[Scene Thirteenth. The Same.'^'] 

Enter Mal. 

\Mar\ . Am I alone ? doth not my mother come .? 
Her torch I see not, which I well might see. 
If any way she were comming toward me : 
Why, then, belike shees gone some other way ; 
And may she go till I bid her turne ! 5 

1 So Q 2. Q I omits. 

2 E. makes this < Act v., Sc. i, In the Fields" ; but Sir Raph frequents the grove, and 
Mall takes it in her flight across the fields firom the cunny greene. 



620 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. \ 

Farre shall her way be then, and little faire, j 

For she hath hindered me of my good turne j j 

God send her wet and wearie ere she turne ! ; 

I had beene at Oxenford, and to morrow | 

Have beene releast from all my maidens sorrow, 10 i 

And tasted joy, had not my mother bin ; 

God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sinne ! 

How many maides this night lyes in their beds. 

And dreame that they have lost their maidenheads ! j 

Such dreames, such slumbers I had to[o] enjoyde, 15 | 

If waking mallice had not them destroide. i 

A starved man with double death doth dye, . 

To have the meate might save him in his eye, ; 

And may not have it: so am I tormented. 

To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. 20 j 

Well, Franke, although thou woedst and quiclcly wonne, j 

Yet shall my love to thee be never done; ' i 

He run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briers, 1 

To come to thee, sole lord of my desires : 

Short woing is the best, an houre, not yeares, 25 ^ 

For long debating love is full of feares. , 

But, hearke ! I heare one tread. O, wert my brother, 

Or Franke, or any man, but not my mother ! : 

\Enter Sir Raph Smith from the fields J\ i 

iS. Rap. O, when will this same yeare of night have end ? j 

Long lookt for daies sunne, when wilt thou ascend ? 30 ; 

Let not this theefe friend, misty vale ^ of night, '. 

Incroach on day, and shadow thy faire light, I 

Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetes bed, ! 

Blushing foorth, golden haire and glorious red ; • \ 

O, stay not long, bright lanthorne of the day, 35 ; 
To light my mist way ^ feete to my right way ! 

Mali. It is a man, his big voice tels me so, 
Much am I not acquainted with it tho ; 
And yet mine eare, sounds true distinguisher, 

1 veil. ^ missed-way. 



xiii] angry women of Abington 621 

Boyes ^ that I have been more familiar 40 

With it then now I am : well, I doe judge, 

It is not envies fellon, not of grudge'-^; 

Therefore He plead acquaintance, hyer his guiding, 

And buy of him some place of close abiding, 

Till that my mothers mallice be expired, * 45 

And we may joy in that is long desired \Aside\. — 

Whose there ? 

Ra. Are ye a maide ? — No question this is she 
My man doth misse : faith, since she lights on me, 
I doe not meane till day to let her goe ; 50 

For what^ she is my mans love I will know \Aside\, — 

Harke ye, mayde, if mayde, are ye so light 
That you can see to wander in the night ? 

Mai. Harke ye, true man, if true, I tell you, no; 
I cannot see at all which way I goe. 55 

Ra. Fayre mayde, ist so ? say, had ye nere a fall ? 

Mai. Fayre man, not so ; no, I had none at all. 

Ra. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray ? 

Mai. No, no such blocke till now came in my way. 

Ra. Am I that blocke, sweete tripe ? then, fall and try. 60 

'Ma. The grounds too hard a feather-bed; not I. 

Ra. Why, how and you had met with such a stumpe ? 

Mai. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jumpe. 

Ra. Are ye so nimble ? 

Mai. Nimble as a doe. 65 

Ra. Backt in a pye. 

Mai. Of ye. 

Ra. Good meate ye know. 

Mall. Ye hunt sometimes ? 

Ra. I do. ' 70 

Mai. What take ye ? 

Ra. Deare. 

Mall. You'l nere strike rascall * ? 

1 (I suppose) Buoys. Dyce. 

2 So 2tos. Dy.: qy. 'fellow?' H. followed by E., "It is no envious fellow, out of 
grudge." 3 So gtos. = 'why.' H. and E. read < whe'er,' unnecessarily. 

* a deer lean and out of season. Dyce. 



62 2 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Ra, Yes, when ye are there. 

Mai. Will ye strike me ? 75 

Rap. Yes : will ye strike againe ? ^ 

Mall. No, sir ; it fits not maides to fight with men. 

Ra. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know. 

Mall. Why, you may finde it, sir, in the Christcrosse row. 

Rap. Be my schoolemistresse, teach me how to spell it. 80 

Mall. No, faith, I care not greatly if I tell it ; 
My name is Marie Barnes. 

Ra. How, wench ? Mall Barnes ! 

Mai. The verie same. 

Rap. Why, this is strange. 85 

Mai. I pray, sir, whats your^ name ? 

Raph. Why, sir Raph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this; 
Why, whats the cause thou art abroad so late ? 

Mai. What, sir Raph Smith ! nay, then, I will disclose 
All the hole cause to him, in him repose 90 

My hopes, my love : God him, I hope, did send 
Our loves and both our mothers hates to end. \_A5ide\, — • 

Gentle sir Raph, if you my blush might see. 
You then would say I am ashamed to be 

Found, like a wandring stray, by such a knight, 95 

So farre from home at such a time of night : 
But my excuse is good ; love first by fate 
Is crost, controulde,^ and sundered by fell hate. 
Franke Goursev is my love, and he loves me; 

But both our mothers hate and disagree ; 100 

Our fathers like the match and wish it don; 
And so it had, had not our mothers come; 
To Oxford we concluded both to go ; 
Going to meete, they came ; we parted so ; 

My mother followed me, but I ran fast, 105 

Thinking who went from hate had need make hast ; 
Take me she cannot, though she still persue : 
But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you ; 

1 It has not seemed necessary to indicate that 11. 64, 65, 66-68, etc., constitute verses; 
so in nearly every scene. ^ Q 2> oyure. 3 See note on F. B., i. 142. 



XI v] angry women of Abington 623 

Be you my orator and plead my right, 

And get me one good day for this bad night. IIO 

Ra. Alas, good heart, I pitty thy hard hap ! 
And He employ all that I may for thee. 
Franke Goursey, wench ! I do commend thy choyse : 
Now I remember I met one Francis, 

As I did seeke my man, — then, that was he, — 1 15 

And Philip too, — belike that was thy brother: 
Why, now I find how I did loose myself. 
And wander ^ up and down, mistaking so. 
Give me thy hand. Mall : I will never leave 

Till I have made your mothers friends againe, 120 

And purchast to ye both your hearts delight, 
And for this same one bad many a good night. 
Twill not be long ere that Aurora will, 
Deckt in the glory of a goldon sunne. 

Open the christall windowes of the east, 1 25 

To make the earth enamourde of her^ face. 
When we shall have cleare light to see our way : 
Come ; night being done, expe6t a happy day. Exeunt. 

[Scene Fourteenth. A Hillside in the Fields F\ 

Enter Mistresse Barnes \with torLh\ 

Mis. Ba. O, what a race this peevish girle hath led me ! 
How fast I ran, and now how weary I am ! 
I am so out of breath I scarce can speake, — 
What shall I doe? — and cannot overtake her. 

It is * late and darke, and I am far from home : 5 

May there not theeves lye watching heere about, 
Intending mischiefe unto them they meete ? 
There may ; and I am much affrayde of them, 
Being alone without all company. 

I doe repent me of my coming foorth ; 10 

And yet I do not, — they had else beene married, 

1 2 l> ivandring. 3 £ includes with preceding scene. 

2 So Dy. and other eds. Qto%., * thy.' * Dy., ' 'Tis.' 



624 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

And that I would not for ten times more labour. 

But what a winter of colde feare I thole,^ 

Freecing my heart, least danger should betide me ! 

What shal I do to purchase company? 1 5 

I heare some hollow here about the fields : 

Then here He set my torch upon this hill, 

Whose light shall beacon-like condu6l them to it ; 

They that have lost theyr way, seeing a light. 

For it may be seene farre off in the night, 20 

Will come to it. Well, here He lye vnseene,^ 

And looke who comes, and chuse my company : 

Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. \Retires to one side.'\ 

\_Enter Mistresse Goursey.] 

Mi. Gour. Where am I now ? nay, where was I even now ? 

Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. 25 

I thinke I am going home : I may as well 

Be^ going from home; tis so very darke, 

I cannot see how to direct a step. 

I lost my man, pursuing of my sonne ; 

My Sonne escapt me too : now, all alone, 30 

I am enforst^ to wander up and downe. 

Barnses wife's abroad : pray God, that she 

May have as good a daunce, nay, ten times worse ! 

Oh, but I feare she hath not ; she hath light 

To see her way. O, that some ^ bridge would breake, 35 

That she might fall into some deep digd ditch. 

And eyther breake her bones or drowne her selfe ! 

I would these mischiefes I could wish to her 

Might light on her ! — but, soft ; I see a light : 

I will go neere ; tis comfortable, 40 

After this nights sad spirits dulling^ darknes. 

How now ? what, is it set to keep it selfe ? 

Mis. Bar. A plague ont, is she there? \_Aside.'\ 

Mis. Gou. O, how it cheares and quickens up my thoughts I 

1 So Dy., etc., i.e. suffer. Qtos., uole. ^ Q, '^y Being. ^ Q l> same. 

2 The order of 11. 20-21 is reversed in g 2. * 2 ^> enforc''st. ^ spirit-dulling. 



XIV] angry women of Abington 625 

Mis. Bar. O, that it were the besseliskies fell eye, 45 

To poyson thee ! \^Aside.'\ 

Ml. Gou. I care not if I take it, — 
Sure none is here to hinder me, — 
And light me home. 

Mi. Bar. I had rather she were hangd 50 

Then I should set it there to doe her good. \_Aside.~\ 

Mis. Go. I faith, I will. 

Mi. Ba. I faith, you shall not, mistresse ; 
He venter a burnt finger but He have it. \_Aside.'] 

Mi. Gou. Yet Barnses wife would chafe, if that she knew 55 
That I had this good lucke to get a light. 

Mi. Ba. And so she doth ; but praise your 1 lucke at parting. 

\_Aside.'\ 

Mi. Go. O, that it were 2 her light, good faith, that she 
Might darkling walke about as well as I ! 

Mi. Ba. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish ! [^Aside.~\ 

Mi. Go. How I would laugh to see her trot about ! 6 1 

Mi. Bar. Oh, I could cry for anger and for rage ! lAside.'] 

Mi. Go. But who should set it here, I marvel, a Gods name. 

Mi. Bar. One that will hav'te from you, in the devils name. 

\_A5ide.~\ 

Mi. Go. He lay my life that it was Barnses sonne. 65 

Mi. Ba. No, forsooth, it was Barnses wife. 

\_Advancing to seize torch.^ 

Mi. Gou. A plague upon her, how she made me start ! [Aside^. — 
Mistresse, let go the torch. [Tbey struggle for //.] 

Mis. Bar. No, but I will not. 

Mis. Gou. He thrust it in thy face, then. 70 

Mi. Bar. But you shall not. 
Mi. Gou. Let go, I say. 
Mi. Ba. Let you go, for tis mine. 
Mis. Go. But my possession saies, it is none of thine. 
Mi. Bar. Nay, I have holde too. 75 

Mi. Gou. Well, let go thy hold,^ or I will spurn thee. 
Mi. Bar. Do ; I can spurne thee too. 
So Q I. Q 2, you. '^ 2 !» '^''"'- ^ ^^^- ^^^'^^ ^'"^ ^^'■^• 



2 s 



626 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Mi. Go. Canst thou ? 
Mi. Ba. I, that I can. 

Enter Master Goursey and Barnes. 

M. Gou. Why, how now, woman ? ^ how unlike to women 80 
Are ye both now ! come, part, come, part, I say. 

M. Ba. Why, what immodesty is^ this in you! 
Come, part, I say ; fie, fie. 

Mi. Ba. Fie, fie ! I say, she shall not have my torch. — 
Give me thy torch, boy : — I will run a tilt, 85 

And burne out both her eyes in my encounter. 

Mi. Go. Give roome, and lets have this hot cariere.^ 

M. Go. I say, ye shall not : wife, go to, tame your thoughts 
That are so mad with fury. 

M. Ba. And, sweet wife, 90 

Temper your rage with patience ; do not be 
Subject so much to such misgovernment. 

Mi. Bar. Shal I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me ? 

M. Go. How, strumpet, mistris Barnes ! nay, I pray, harke ye : 
I oft indeed have heard vou call her so, 95 

And I have thought upon it, why ye should 
Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know 
Any hurt by her, that you terme her so ? 

M. Ba. No, on my life ; rage onely makes her say so. 

M. Go. [with pretended suspicion^ . But I would know whence 
this same rage should come; lOO 

Whers smoke, theres fire ; and my heart misgives 
My wives intemperance hath got that name; — 
And, mistresse Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly * doubt, 
And some great cause begets this doubt in me. 
Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both. 1 05 

M. Ba. [with assumed indignation] . How ! thinke ye so ? nay, 
master Goursey, then. 
You run in debt to my opinion. 
Because you pay not such advised wisedome 
As I thinke due unto my good conceit. 

1 So Q 2. Eds., 'women.' '^ Q 2, it. 3 Qtos., carerie. * Q ^> 'shrewdly.' 



xiv] angry women of Abington 627 

M. Go. [angrily] . Then still I feare I shall your debter proove. 

\_M. Bar.] .1 Then I arrest you in the name of love j 
Not bale, but present answere to my plea ; 112 

And in the court of reason we will try 
If that good thoughts should beleeve jelousie. 

[ They make as if they were fighting. ] 

[Enter Phillip, Frank, Coomes, ^r.] 

Phil. Why, looke you, mother, this is long of you. — 115 

For Gods sake, father, harke ! why, these efFe6ts 
Come still from womens malice : part, I pray. — 
Comes, Wil, and Hodge, come all, and helpe us part them ! — 

[ They try to part the combatants. 
Father, but heare me speake one word, no more. 

Franke. Father, but heare me^ speake, then use your will. 120 

Phil. Crie peace betweene ye for a little while. 

Mi. Gou. [fulling her husband off] . Good husband, heare him 
speake. 

Mis. Bar. [pulling at hers] . Good husband, heare him. 

Coom. [pulling at Goursey] . Maister, heare him speake ; hees a 
good wise young stripling for his yeeres, I tell ye, and perhaps may 
speake wiser then an elder body ; therefore heare him. 126 

Hod. Master, heare, and make an end ; you may kil one another 
in jest, and be hanged in earnest. [He parts them.] 

M. Go. Come, let us heare him. — Then, speake quickly, 
Phillip. 129 

M. Ba. Thou shouldst have done ere this ; speak, Phil, speak. 

Mis. Bar. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt your selves ! — 
Good Phillip, use some good perswasions 
To make them friends. 

Phi. Yes, He doe what I can. — 
Father, and master Goursey, both attend. 135 

It is presumption in so young a man 
To teach where he might learne, or [to] ^ derecft 

1 So Dyce. Qtos. assign to Goursey. Perhaps Barnes lays his hand on Goursey who shakes 
it off. A scuffle appears to ensue : cf. 11. 161-163. 

2 So Q 2. But 2 I, ' him,' which Dy., etc., for no sufficient reason prefer. 

3 So Dy. Qtos., be. 



628 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Where he hath had direction ; but in duety 

He may perswade as long as his perswase 

Is backt with reason and a rightfull sute. 140 

Phisickes first rule is this, as I have learned, 

Kill the effect by cutting of the cause : ^ 

The same effects of ruffin outrages 

Comes by the cause of mallice in your wives ; 

Had not they two bin foes, you had bin friends, 145 

And we had bin at home, and this same war 

In peacefull sleep had nere bin dreamt upon. — 

Mother, and mistresse Goursey, to make them friends, 

Is to be friends your selves : you are the cause, 

And these effects proceed, you know, from you; 150 

Your hates give life unto these killing strifes. 

But dye and if that envy dye in you. — 

[The fathers make as if to renew the combat. ~\ 
Fathers, yet stay. — O, speake ! — O, stay a while ! — \They desist. '\ 
Francis, perswade thy mother. — Maister Goursey, 
If that my mother will resolve ^ your minde'^ 155 

That tis but meere suspect, not common proofe, 
And if my father sweares hees innocent. 
As I durst pawne my soule with him he is. 
And if your wife vow truth and constancy. 
Will you be then perswaded ? 1 60 

M. Gou. Phillip, if thy father will remit 
The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions 
May be performde, I bannish all my wrath. 

M. Bar. And if thy mother will but cleere me, Phillip, 
As I am ready to protest I am, 165 

Then master Goursey is my friend againe. 

Phi. Harke, mother ; now you heare that your desires 
May be accomplished ; they will both be friends. 
If you'l performe these easie ^ articles. 

Mi. Ba. Shall I be friends with such an enemy? 170 

Phil. What say you unto my perswase ? 

Mi. Ba. I say shees my deadly enemie. 

1 Cf. F.B.y viii. 75. 2 convince. 3 So Dy. (^tos., mindes. ^ So Q i. Q 2 omits. 



xiv] angry women of Abington 629 

Phil. I, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.^ 

Mi, Ba. The words I said ! what, shall I eate a truth ? 

Phi. Why, harke ye, mother. 175 

Fra. Mother, what say you ? 

Mis. Go. Why, this I say, she slaundered my good name. 

Fra. But if she now denie it, tis no defame. 

Mi. Go. What, shall I thinke her hate will yeeld so much ? 

Fra. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such. iSo- 

M. Go. \_Impatient for the reconciliation.'] Why, will it be.? 

Phi. Yet stay, I have some hope. 
Mother, why, mother, why, heare ye.^ 
Give me your hand ; it is no more but thus ; 

Tis easie labour to shake hands with her: 185 

A3 little breath is spent in speaking of faire words, 
When wrath hath violent deliveries.* 

M. Bar. What, shall we be resolved ? \_As if to renew the fra-^.] 

Mi. Bar. O husband, stay ! — \_Stepping between them.] 

Stay, maister Goursey : though your wife doth hate me, 190 

And beares unto me mallice infinite 
And endlesse, yet I will respect your safeties ; 
I would not have you perish by our meanes : 
I must confesse that onely suspeft. 
And no proofe els, hath fed my hate to her. 195 

Mi. Gour. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth 
That her suspect is causles and unjust. 
And that I nere had such a vilde intent ; 
Harme she imaginde, where as none was ment. 

Phil. Loe, sir, what would yee more .? 200 

M. Bar. Yes, Phillip, this ; 
That I confirme him in my innocence 
By .this large universe. 

M. Gour. [with show of co?itinued impatience.] By that I sweare. 
He credit none of you, until I heere 205 

Friendship concluded straight betweene them two : 

1 Qy., revoke. Cf. F. B.y viii. 144, n. ^ Dyce thinks something has dropt out here. 

3 Ought probably to be omitted. Dyce. 

4 So (^ 2 5 which is just as intelligible as the * deliverie ' of ^ I and Eds. 



630 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

If I see that they willingly will doe, 
Then He imagine all suspition ends ; 
I may be then assured, they being friends. 

Phil. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so. 210 

Mi. Bar. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe ? 

Phil. No : if she yeeld, will you ? 

Mi. Ba. It may be, I. 

Phil. Why, this is well. The other I will trie. — 
Come, mistresse Goursey, do you first agree. 215 

Mi. Gour. What, shall I yeeld unto mine enemie .? 

Phil. Why, if she will, will you ? 

Mi. Gou. Perhaps I will. 

Phil. Nay, then, I finde this goes well forward still. 
Mother, give me your hand, — give me yours to[o]; 220 

Be not so loath ; some good thing I must do ; 
But lay your torches by, I like not them ; 
Come, come, deliver them unto your men : 
Give me your hands. — So, now, sir, heere I stand, 
Holding two angrie women in my hand : 225 

And I must please them both ; I could please tone,i 
But it is hard when there is two to one, 
Especially of women ; but tis so, 
They shall be pleasd whether they will or no. — 
Which will come first ? what, both give back ! ha, neither! 230 
Why, then, yond may helpe that come both together.^ 
So, stand still, stand ^ but a little while. 
And see how I your angers will beguile. 
Well, yet there is no hurt ; why, then, let me 

Joyne these two hands, and see how theil agree: \_They kiss.~\ 235 
Peace, peace ! they crie ; looke how they friendly kisse ! 
Well, all this while there is no harme in this : 
Are not these two twins ? twins should be both alike. 
If tone speakes faire, the tother should not strike : 
Jesus, these warriours will not offer blowes ! 240 

1 the one. 

2 H. and E. change, unnecessarily, to "yond help that both may come together.'* 

3 Qy. , stand still ? Dyce. 



xiv] angry women of Abington 631 

Why, then, tis strange that you two should be foes. 

O, yes, youle say, your weapons are your tongues ; 

Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs : 

Go to, imbrace, and say, if you be friends. 

That heere the angrie womens quarrels ends. \They embrace,'\ 245 

Ml. Gou. Then heere it ends, if mistres Barnes say so. 

Mi. Bar. If you say, I, I list not to say, no. 

M. Gou. If they be friends, by promise we agree. 

M. Bar. And may this league of friendship ever be ! 

Phil. What saist thou, Franke ? doth not this fall out well ? 250 

Fran. Yes, if my Mall were heere, then all were well. 

Enter Sir Raphe Smith with Mall [who stands aside~\. 

Raph. Yonder they be. Mall : stay, stand close, and stur not, 
Until! I call. — God save yee, gentlemen ! 

M. Bar. What, sir Raph Smith ! you are a welcome man : 
We wondred when we heard you were abroad. 255 

Raph. Why, sir, how heard yee that I was abroad ? 

M. Bar. By your man. 

Raph. My man ! where is he ? 

Will. Heere. 

Raph. O, yee are a trustie squire ! . 260 

Nic. It had bin better, and he had said, a sure carde, 

Phil. Why, sir ? 

Nic. Because it is the proverbe. 

Phil. Away, yee asse ! 

Nic. An asse goes a foure legs ; I go of two, Christ crosse. 265 

Phi. Hold your tongue. 

Nic. And make no more adoe. 

M. Gou. Go to, no more adoe. — Gentle sir Raphe, 
Your man is not in fault for missing you. 
For he mistooke by us, and we by him. 270 

Raph. And I by you ; which now I well perceive. 
But tell me, gentlemen, what made yee all 
Be from your beds this night, and why thus late 
Are your wives walking heere about the fields : ^ 



632 A pleasant Comedie of the two [sc. 

Tis strange to see such women of accoumpt 275 

Heere; but I gesse some great occasion. 

M. Gour. Faith, this occasion, sir : women will jarre ; 
And jarre they did to day, and so they parted; 
We knowing womens mallice let alone 

Will, canker like, eate farther in their hearts, 280 

Did seeke a sodaine cure, and thus it was, — 
A match betweene his daughter and my sonne : 
No sooner motioned but twas agreed. 
And they no sooner saw but wooed and likte : 
They have it sought to crosse, and crosse it thus. 285 

Rap. Fye, mistresse Barnes, and mistresse Goursey both ; 
The greatest sinne wherein your soules may sinne, 
I thinke, is this, in crossing of true love : 
Let me perswade yee. 

Mi. Bar. Sir, we are perswaded, 290 

And I and mistresse Goursey are both friends; 
And, if my daughter were but found againe, 
Who now is missing, she had my consent 
To be disposd off to her owne content. 

Raph. I do rejoyce that what I thought to doe, 295 

Ere I begin, I jfinde already, done : 
Why, this will please your friends at Abington. — 
Franke, if thou seekst that way, there thou shalt finde 
Her, whom 1 holde the comfort of thy minde. 

Mall, [coming forward^ . He shall not seeke me ; I will seeke 
him out, 300 

Since of my mothers graunt I need not doubt. 

Mi. Bar. Thv mother graunts, my girle, and she doth pray 
To send unto you both a joyfull day ! 

Hodg. Nay, mistresse Barnes, I wish her better ; that those joy- 
full daves may be turned to jovfull nights. 305 

Coom. Faith, tis a pretty wench, and tis pitty but she should 
have him. 

Nich. And, mistresse Mary, when yee go to bed, God send you 
good rest, and a peck a fleas in your nest, every one as big as 
Francis ! 310 



XIV] angry women of Abington 633 

Phil. Well said, wisdome : God send thee wise children ! 

Nich. And you more money. 

Phil, I, so wish I. 

Nich. Twill be a good while ere you wish your skin full of ilet holes. 

Phil. Franke, harke ye : brother, now your woings doone, 315 
The next thing now you do is for a sonne ; 
I prithe, for, i faith, I should be glad 
To have myselfe cald nunckle, and thou dad. — 
Well, sister, if that Francis play the man. 

My mother must be grandam, and you mam. — 320 

To it, Francis, — to it, sister ! — God send yee joy ! 
Tis fine to sing, " dansey, my owne sweete boye ! " 

Fra. Well, sir, jest on. 

Phil. Nay, sir,^ do you jest on. 

M. Bar. Well, may she proove a happy wife to him ! 325 

M. Gou. And may he proove as happy unto her ! 

Raph. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them both ! 
Since twas my hap thus happily to meete. 
To be a witnesse of this sweete contract, 

I doe rejoyce ; wherefore, to have this joye 330 

Longer present with me, I do request 
That all of you will be rny promist guests : 
This long nights labour dooth desire some rest, 
Besides this wished end ; therefore, I pray. 

Let me deteine yee but a dinner time : 335 

Tell me, I pray, shall I obtaine so much ? 

M. Bar. Gentle sir Raphe, your courtesie is such 
As may impose commaund unto us all ; 
We will be thankfuU bolde at your request. 

Phil. I pray, sir Raph, what cheere shall we have? 340 

S. Raph. I faith, countrie fare, mutton and veale, 
Perchance a ducke or goose. 

Mai. Oh, I am sick ! 

All. How now. Mall ? whats the matter ? 

Mai. Father and mother, if you needs would know, 345 

He nam'd a goose, which is my stomacks foe. 



634 Two angry women of Abington [sc. xiv] 

Phil. Come, come, she is with childe of some od jest, 
And now shees sicke till that she bring ^ it foorth. 

Mai. A jest, quoth you ! well, brother, if it be, 
I feare twill proove an earnest unto me. — 350 

Goose, said ye, sir ? Oh, that same very name 
Hath in it much variety of shame ! 
Of all the birds that ever yet was seene, 
I would not have them graze upon this greene ; 
I hope they will not, for this crop is poore, 355 

And they may pasture upon greater store : 
But yet tis pittie that they let them passe, 
And like a common bite the Muses grasse. 
Yet this I feare ; if Franke and I should kisse, 
Some creeking goose would chide us with a hisse : 360 

I meane not that goose that sings it knowes not what ; ^ 
Tis not that hisse when one sales, 'hist, come hither'; 
Nor that same hisse that setteth dogges together; 
Nor that same hisse that by a fire doth stand, 

And hisseth T. or F.^ upon the hand ; 365 

But tis a hisse, and He unlace my cote, 
For I should sound * sure, if I heard that note. 
And then ' greene ginger for the greene goose ' cries, 
Serves not the turne, — I turn'd the white of eyes. 
The rosa-solh^ yet that makes me live 370 

Is favour^ that these gentlemen may give; 
But if they be displeased, then pleasde am I, 
To yeeld my selfe a hissing death to dye : 
Yet I hope heeres none consents to kill, 

But kindly take the favour of good will. 375 

If any thing be in the pen to blame. 
Then here stand I to blush the writers shame : 
If this be bad, he promises a better ; 
Trust him, and he will proove a right true debter. \_Exeunt,'\ 

^ Q I , * brings. ' 

2 A line, which rhymed with this one, has dropt out. Dyce. But H. begins a new line 
with * Sings.' 

* Traitor or Felon. Dyce. * Swoon. 6 a cordial. ^ 2 ^> * favours.' 



JVilliam Shakespeare 



AS A COMIC DRAMATIST 



A Monograph by Edward 
DowdeTiy LL.D.y Professor 
in Trinity College, Dublin. 



SHAKESPEARE AS A COMIC DRAMATIST 

The Essentials of Shakespearian Comedy The Comedies of 

Shakespeare, which form more than a third part of his dramatic 
work, belong to every period of his career as a writer, except one. 
During a few years, soon after the opening of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, he turned away from comedy, or rather he was drawn by 
some irresistible attraction to explore the tragic depths of life, and 
for a time its bright or variegated surface was lost to view. The 
results of his passionate inquisition of evil entered into the spirit 
of his latest plays, which we might name "romances" rather than 
" comedies," and hence the study of Shakespeare's lighter and 
brighter work cannot be wholly dissociated from the study of that 
in which terror and pity are the presiding powers. 

To conceive Shakespearian comedy aright we must disconnect 
the word "comedy" from the associations derived from its adjectives 
"comic" and "comical"; we must recognize the fact that, though 
laughter is one of its incidents, laughter is not its end. Our chief 
living master of the carte and tierce of wit, Mr. George Meredith, 
describes folly as the natural prey of the comic spirit, " known to 
it in all her transformations, in every disguise ; and it is with the 
springing delight of hawk over heron, hound after fox, that it gives 
her chase, never fretting, never tiring, sure of having her, allowing 
her no rest." Shakespeare's comedy includes the intellectual delight 
of chasing down folly and being in at the death, but this is not its 
main purpose. Nor is he eager to assume the part of the indignant 
moral satirist. It is not he but Ben Jonson, in the person of Asper, 
who announces that " with an armed and resolved hand " he will 

** Strip the ragged follies of their time 
Naked as at their birth 

and with a whip of steel 
Print wounding lashes in their iron ribs." 

637 



638 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

Shakespeare on occasions can wield the whip of steel, but it is 
when for a time he parts company with the spirit of comedy. 
Moral truth radiates through all the world of his creation, but he 
does not suppose that morality is served by being outrageously 
moral ; in writing comedy he has more faith in sunshine as a sana- 
tive agent than in lightning and tempest. If he is ever contemptu- 
ous, it is because the pitifulness of such a baffled pretender as 
Parolles, or of such lean-witted conspirators as Antonio and Sebas- 
tian, admits of no other feeling. From personal satire he, unlike 
several of his contemporaries, wholly abstained, unless, indeed, the 
theory holds good, which finds in Troilus and Cressida that purge 
given by the player Shakespeare — so Kempe tells Burbage in The 
Return from Parnassus — to the pestilent fellow, Ben Jonson. 

Perhaps it is impossible to include under any single general con- 
ception works which differ from each other as widely as The Comedy 
of Errors^ Measure for Measure^ and The Tempest; but if we cannot 
seize it as a whole, we may see from a little distance this side and 
that of comedy as understood by Shakespeare. Its vital centre is 
not an idea, an abstraction, a doctrine, a moral thesis, but some- 
thing concrete — persons involved in an action. When philosophi- 
cal critics assure us that the theme of The Merchant of Venice is 
expressed by the words Summum jus^ summa injuria^ or that it 
exhibits " man in relation to money," we admire the motto they 
discovered in their nut, and prefer the kernel in our own. The 
persons and the action are placed in some region, which is neither 
wholly one of fantasy nor yet one encumbered with the dross of 
actuality. Aery spirits, an earth-born Caliban, Robingoodfellow, 
the king and queen of Faery, may make their incursion into it, yet 
it is in the truest sense the haunt and home of "human mortals." 
The finer spirit of the poet's own age is forever present, but he 
makes no laborious effort to imitate life in the lower sense of re- 
producing contemporary manners. He turns away from his own 
country. Once — by command — Sir John Falstaff makes love to 
the laughing bourgeois wives of Windsor ; but to comply with the 
necessity Shakespeare's comedy descends from verse to prose. Ben 
Jonson's invention is at home in Cob's Court and Picthatch, in the 
aisle of Paul's, or among the booths of Bartholomew Fair ; having 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 639 

disguised the characters of his first important play under Italian 
names, he rightly christened them anew as Londoners. Shake- 
speare's imagination, throwing off the burden of the actual, de- 
sported itself in the Athenian moonlit wood and on the yellow sands 
of the enchanted island, under green boughs in Arden, in the garden 
at Belmont, in the palace of Illyria, at the shepherd's festival in 
Bohemia. 

The action corresponds with the environment. In the great 
tragedies Shakespeare may on rare occasions demand certain postu- 
lates at the outset. These having been granted, the plot evolves 
itself within the bounds of the credible. In King Lear the opening 
scene puts some strain upon our imaginative belief, but Shakespeare 
received the legend as it had been handed down to him, and all that 
follows the opening scene — though the action is vast and monstrous 
— obeys an order and logic which compel our acquiescence. It 
is not always so, if we refuse its claims to fancy, in Shakespearian 
comedy. In a region which borders on the realm of fantasy we 
must be prepared to accept many happy surprises. Our desire for 
happiness inclines our hearts to a pleasant credulity ; if chance at 
the right moment intervenes, it comes as our own embodied hope. 
When all and every one in Arden wood, save Jaques, are on their 
way to wedlock, like couples coming to the ark, we are not disposed 
to question the reality of that old religious man upon the borders 
of the forest who suddenly converts the usurping Duke, and turns 
back the mighty power which he had set on foot. We are grateful 
for such hermits and such convertites. 

The characters again correspond in comedy with the environ- 
ment and with the action. In tragedy character is either from the 
first fully formed and four-square, or, if it is developed by events, 
it develops in accordance with an internal law. Passion runs its 
inevitable course, like a great wave driven of the wind, and breaks 
with thunder upon the shoal of death. The human actors disap- 
pear; only the general order of the world and the eternal moral 
law endure. But in comedy the individual must be preserved, and 
must at the close enter into possession of happy days ; if he has erred 
through folly or vice, his error has not been mortal ; he may in the 
last scene of the fifth act swiftly change his moral disposition as he 



640 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

would change his outward garb. The traitor Proteus is suddenly 
restored to his better mind, and Valentine is generous enough to 
resign to the repentant traitor all his rights in Silvia. Bertram, 
who almost to the last entangles himself in a network of dastardly 
lies, is rescued from his dishonesty and foolish pride by a successful 
trick, and becomes the loyal husband of Helena. The Duke 
Orsino transfers his amorous homage from his " fancy's queen " 
Olivia to his " fancy's queen " Viola with a most convenient facility. 
Angelo discovers his own baseness in the moment when he perceives 
it is discovered by the world, and is straightway virtuous enough to 
bring the happiness required by a fifth act to the wronged Mariana. 
Even lachimo — the lago of a comedy — makes sorrowful con- 
fession of his villany, and restores the purloined bracelet and the 
ill-won ring. Such transformations as these indicate that even as 
regards character the law of comedy is a law of liberty. When 
it suits Shakespeare's purpose, the study of character can be profound 
and veracious ; when occasion requires it, incident becomes all- 
important, and character yields to the requirements of the situation. 
In truth, while it may be said that in Shakespearian tragedy char- 
acter is fate, in Shakespearian comedy, among the contrasts and sur- 
prises which form so abundant a source of its vivacity, not the least 
effective contrast is that of character set over, as it were, against 
itself, not the least effective surprise is that of character entering 
upon new phases under the play of circumstance. The unity and 
logic of character may not in reality be impaired, but the unity is 
realized in and through diversity. In punning, a word is made to 
play a double part ; it jostles its other self, and laughter ensues. 
What is so single and indivisible as personality ? But if John is 
mistaken for Thomas, accident seems to triumph over law, and the 
incongruity arises of a doubled personal identity — the apparent and 
the real. Antipholus, of Syracuse, like the little woman of the nurs- 
ery rhyme, whose sense of personality was dependent on the length 
of her petticoats, is almost persuaded that he is other than himself. 
If Viola disguises in doublet and hose, she secures by anticipation 
the victory of Sebastian over Olivia's heart, while in her own heart 
she endures a woman's hidden love for the Duke. One man in 
his brief time on Shakespeare's comic stage may play many parts. 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 641 

The ascetic scholars of Navarre are transformed into the most gal- 
lant of lovers and the most ingenious of sonneteers. Katherine the 
curst becomes more resolute in her wifely submission than she had 
been in her virgin sauvagerie. Signior Benedick, who challenged 
Cupid at the flight, in due time alters to Benedick, the married 
man ; my dear Lady Disdain, in pity for him, and a little in pity 
for herself, has yielded upon great persuasion. If, as Montaigne 
teaches us, man is the most variable of animals, perhaps we learn 
as important a truth about human nature from Shakespeare's 
comedies as from his more profound study of the fatality of char- 
acter and passion in the tragedies. 

The essentials of Shakespearian comedy at its best are, after all, 
simple and obvious enough — a delightful story, conducted, in some 
romantic region, by gracious and gallant persons, thwarted or aided 
by the mirthful god. Circumstance, and arriving at a fortunate 
issue. Such would not serve as a description of the comedies of 
Ben Jonson. He is pleased to keep us during the greater part of 
five laborious acts in the company of knaves and gulls, and at the 
close, poetic justice is satisfied with the detection of folly and a 
general retribution descending on evil-doers. Shakespeare, in com- 
edy, is no such remorseless justicer. Don John, the bastard, is 
reserved for punishment, but it shall be upon the morrow, and the 
punishment shall be such as the mirthful Benedick may devise. 
Parolles escapes lightly with the laughter of Lafeu, and mockery, 
qualified by a supper, will not afflict him beyond endurance. Lucio 
is condemned to marry the mother of his child, which is so dire an 
evil that all other forfeits are remitted. Sir John FalstafF will join 
the rest by Mistress Page's country fire in jesting at his own dis- 
comfiture. Even Shylock is not wholly overwhelmed ; he shall 
have godfathers and a godmother at his baptism, and remain in pos- 
session of half his worldly goods. Sebastian may live and discover 
that he is morally superior to Caliban, the thief, and Stephano, the 
drunkard. lachimo kneels and receives the free forgiveness of 
Posthumus. 

But if Shakespeare, in comedy, is niggard of punishment, he is 
liberal in rewards. And since almost all the stories he chooses for 
his comic stage are stories of love and lovers, what grand reward 



2T 



642 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

can be reserved for the fifth act so fitting as the reward of love ? 
In the seventeenth century masque amid all its mythological, fan- 
tastic, or humorous diversities, one point, or pivot, of the action 
remained fixed — the incidents must give occasion to a dance of the 
masquers. So in Shakespearian comedy we may, with almost equal 
certainty, reckon upon a marriage, or more marriages than one, in 
act, or in immediate prospect, before the curtain closes. Or, if not 
a marriage, for the lovers may be wedded lovers at the opening, 
then, after division, or separation of husband and wife, what we 
may call a remarriage, with misunderstandings cleared up and faults 
forgiven. When Shakespeare wrote his earlier plays he was him- 
self young, and his gaze was fixed upon the future; exultant lovers 
begin their new life, and the song of joy is an epithalamium. When 
he wrote his latest plays, he was no longer young, and he thought 
of the blessedness of recovering the happy past, of knitting anew 
the strained or broken bonds of life, of connecting the former and 
the latter days in natural piety. Youth still must have its rapture; 
Florizel must win his royal shepherdess, queen of curds and cream ; 
the nuptials of Ferdinand and Miranda, " these, our dear-beloved," 
must be duly solemnized at Naples ; but Shakespeare's temper is no 
longer the temper of youth ; he is of the company of Hermione 
and Prospero, and the music of the close is a grave and spiritual 
harmony. 

Between the first scene and the last the path in comedy is beset 
with obstacles and dangers, past which love must find a way — 
" the course of true love never did run smooth." These may be 
either internal — some difficulty arising from character, or external 
— difl^erence of blood or of rank, the choice of friends, slanderous 
tongues, rival passions, the spite of fortune. The resolution of the 
difficulty must be of a corresponding kind ; temper, or rash deter- 
mination, mu5t yield to the predominance of love, or the external 
obstacles must be removed by well-directed effort, or by a happy 
turn of events. The young king of Navarre and his fellow-stu- 
dents are immured by their ascetic vow of culture; Isabella is all 
but ceremonially pledged to the life of religion; Olivia is secluded 
by her luxury of sentimental sorrow ; Beatrice, born to be a lover, 
is at odds with love through her pride of independence and wilful 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 643 

mirth ; Bertram has the young colt's pleasure in freedom, refuses to 
be ranged, and suffers from the haughty blindness of youth, which 
cannot recognize its own chief need and highest gain. All such 
rebels against love will be subdued in good time. On the other 
hand, it is her father who has decreed that Hermia shall be parted 
from Lysander; both father and mother have rival designs for 
marring the destiny of sweet Nan Page; a false friend and fickle 
lover separates Valentine and Silvia ; a malignant plotter, who 
would avenge on all happy creatures the wrong of his own base 
birth, strikes down Hero with the blow of slander as she stands 
before the altar. But love has on its side gallantry and resource, 
loyalty and valour, the good powers of nature and the magic of the 
moonlit faery wood ; and so, over the mountains and over the 
waves, love at last finds out a way. 

Love being the central theme of Shakespearian comedy, laughter 
cannot be its principal end, and cruel or harsh laughter is almost 
necessarily excluded. But the laughter of joy rings out in the earlier 
and middle comedies, and a smile, beautiful in its wisdom and 
serenity, illuminates the comedies of his closing period. If satire is 
present, it is only on rare occasions a satire of manners; it deals 
rather with something universal, a satire of the fatuity of self-lovers, 
of the power which the human heart has of self-deception, or it is a 
genial mockery of the ineptitude of brainless self-importance, or 
the little languid lover's amorous endeavours, or the lumbering pace 
of heavy-witted ignorance, which cannot catch a common meaning, 
even by the tail ; at its average rate of progress the idea whisks too 
swiftly from the view of such slow gazers. 

The dramatis personce form a large and varied population, ranging 
in social rank from the king to the tinker and the bellows-mender. 
Princes, dukes, courtiers, pages, dissolute gallants, soldiers, sailors, 
shepherds, clowns, city mechanicals, the country justice, the con- 
stable and head-borough, the schoolmaster, the parson, the faithful 
old servant, the lively waiting-maid, roysterers, humourists, light- 
fingered rogues, foreign fantasticoes, middle-class English husbands 
and wives, Welshman, Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, Jew, noble 
and gracious ladies, country wenches, courtesans, childhood, youth, 
manhood, old age, the maiden, the wife, the widow — all sorts and 



644 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

conditions of human mortals occupy the scene, while on this side 
enters Caliban, bearing his burden of pine-logs, and Ariel flies over- 
head upon the bat's back, on the other, the offended king of faery- 
frowns upon Titania, and claims his pretty Eastern minion. 

The characters are ordinarily ranged, with an excellent effect 
on dramatic perspective, in three groups or divisions. The lovers 
and their immediate friends or rivals occupy the middle plane. 
Above them are persons of influence or authority by virtue of age 
or rank, on whom in some measure the fortunes of the lovers 
depend. Below them are the humbler aiders and abettors of their 
designs, or subordinate figures lightly attached to the central action, 
yet sometimes playing into the hands of benevolent Chance, and 
always ready to diversify the scene, to enliven the stage, to afford a 
breathing-space between passages of high-wrought emotion, to fill 
an interval with glittering word-play or unconscious humour, to 
save romance from shrill intensity or too aerial ascension by the 
contact of reality. Shakespeare in comedy was hardly quite happy 
until he had found his Duke and his clown ; then he had the space 
in which he could move at ease ; love remains his central theme, 
but it is love which rises out of life \ his principal figures are ren- 
dered more distinct, are seen more in the round, because they stand 
out from a rich and various background. 

Intrigue ; and the Treatment of Materials. — The intrigue of 
Shakespeare's comedies is seldom of his own creation. He under- 
stood by " invention " something finer or rarer than the construc- 
tion of a plot. The greatest workers in literature — we must 
perhaps except Dante — have been the trouveres^ the finders. To 
form a being out of the clay, and to breathe into its nostrils the 
breath of life is an act of creation in the finest sense of the word. 
What is material and mechanical Shakespeare willingly accepts from 
others ; his range of invention is almost without limit, but it is in- 
vention in the spiritual world. No sufficient sources have been 
found for his earliest comedy — Love's Labours Lost — and for 
what was perhaps his latest — The Tempest ; it does not follow, 
however, that in these instances he varied from his customary 
practice. When Shakespeare dealt with the substantial matter of 
history, he remained upon his native soil, until through Plutarch he 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist O45 

discovered Rome. No dramatist of his age is more truly an Eng- 
lish patriot ; no other evocation of the past in poem or play is so 
truly alive or so truly national as that effected in Shakespeare's 
series of chronicle histories ; and with his English history he has 
connected his robustest piece of comedy — no romance of love, but 
a comedy of character, essentially national in its humour, its exult- 
ant mirth, its pathos, the chronicle history of King FalstafF on his 
tavern throne. But breathing the air of the English Renaissance, 
he turned away in his romantic comedies from his own country to 
Italy, the land of romance. Once — in Cymbeline — he is a debtor 
to Holinshed, but Holinshed has here to summon Boccaccio to his 
aid. Even The Merry Wives of Windsor^ as far as we can trace its 
sources, is indebted for some of its laughable adventures to the Ital- 
ian novelle. Twice Shakespeare borrowed the plots of comedies 
from tales by contemporary writers of England, — Js Ton Like It is 
founded upon Lodge's Rosalynde ; The Winter s Tale^ upon Greene's 
Pandosto. But although Lodge's story was in part derived from a 
poem of rough and humble incidents, characteristically English, it 
was transformed in his hands into a mifch-embroidered amorous 
pastoral of the Renaissance, and Greene's Pandosto is equally a prod- 
uct of exotic southern culture. 

Boccaccio, Bandello, Cinthio, elder English dramas derived from 
Italian sources, Spanish pastoral romance — these furnished the 
booty on which Shakespeare laid hands with the right of a con- 
queror. He selected, omitted, altered, added, moulding the mass 
of material with plastic hands, which are gentle because they are 
strong. Frequently he complicates the intrigue ; sometimes he 
entangles a secondary plot with the primary ; sometimes he emends 
the ethics, or purifies the atmosphere, or saves some cherished char- 
acter from dishonour; in many instances he creates new personages, 
who are the interpreters of his own wisdom or humour or gracious 
temper. Thus in Js Ton Like It^ though the loves of Orlando and 
Rosalind are transposed from the languid artificial pastoral of Lodge 
into the spirited wood-notes of Shakespeare, we look in vain through 
Lodge's romance for the sentimental-cynical Jaques, dilettante col- 
lector of curious experiences, for Touchstone, the courtier-clown, 
with his logic of nice distinctions, for Audrey, no Dresden-china 



646 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

shepherdess, but fascinating to her ingenious suitor by virtue of her 
robust charms and her flattering inferiority of brain. Again, in 
Twelfth Night the character of Malvolio and of the whole group of 
his tormentors — Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Fabian, 
Feste, Maria — are added to his originals by Shakespeare. The 
languorous love-in-idleness of the Duke Orsino, and Olivia's sad- 
ness prepense demanded a contrast, and in Shakespeare's imagina- 
tion sprang up this crew of toper and droll and slender-witted 
gentlemen, and mischief-loving maid, who seem to take hands and 
dance around the solemn figure of that deluded magnifico of domes- 
tics. To cite but one other example, how would Much Ado about 
Nothing dwindle if Beatrice and Benedick, its brain of wit and pulse 
of gallantry, were to disappear from the scene ! But these, and 
with them the office-bearing majesty of Dogberry, prince of consta- 
bles, and the astute intelligence of goodman Verges (" an old man, 
sir ; but honest as the skin between his brows ") are engrafted by 
Shakespeare on the original of Bandello. 

Relation to Predecessors and Contemporaries. — From his prede- 
cessors and early contemporaries Shakespeare doubtless learnt what- 
ever it was in their power to teach ; at the same time he started 
forth on ways of his own. In Lyly he saw how something of the 
ideality of the masque could be transferred to comedy ; how 
comedy could escape from the grosser world of the actual to a 
realm of courtly classical fantasy ; how action could be suspended 
to give scope for the play of sparkling or ingenious dialogue in 
prose; how dainty song could come to the aid of speech which 
threatened to grow tedious -, how disguises of sex could lead to 
delicate and diverting confusions. But Shakespeare must have 
perceived the lack of human interest in Lyly's plays ; the deficiency 
of action, which often causes the progress of the piece to languish 
or to cease ; the slight or colourless characterization ; the mechan- 
ical artificiality, and monotonous balance of certain elements in 
Euphuistic prose. What was sprightly and ingenious in Lyly's 
dialogue he preserved ; but of Euphuism in the strict sense we find 
nothing in Shakespeare's plays, except a passage of mockery, appro- 
priately introduced where FalstafF in the tavern discourses as a 
moralizing father to that well-bred youth. Prince Hal, — "For 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 647 

though the camomile the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, 
yet youth the more it is wasted the sooner it wears.'* Nor, unless 
it be the passage describing Oberon's vision of Cupid aiming his 
shaft at the fair vestal throned in the West, does he follow Lyly 
in mythological allegory, which conceals and betrays contemporary 
persons and events. 

In the comedies of Robert Greene examples already existed of 
the romantic tale of love and lovers handled in dramatic fashion. 
Amid the vulgar surroundings of his sorry London life, Greene 
preserved a certain purity of idyllic imagination. His comely 
maidens and loyal wives, tried and true, had shown how important 
and how attractive a part may be borne by women upon the comic 
stage. He had exhibited with some skill the art of connecting two 
intrigues — the primary and the subordinate. He had placed comic 
matter side by side with matter which approximated to tragic. He 
could pass from verse to prose, and could mingle with blank verse, 
sometimes brocaded with ornament but often fresh and sweet, easy 
rhymed couplets and such other arrangements of rhyme as Shake- 
speare practised in his early plays. But he often erred through an 
attempt at Mario wesque magnificence and through the pride and 
pomp of pseudo-classical decoration. He lacked that humour of 
good sense, directed upon oneself, which warns a writer when he 
is in danger of falling into absurdity. His ludicrous scenes do not 
always assist the more serious or romantic matter of the play ; they 
are too much of the nature of an interlude or divertissement. His 
feeling for what is laughable was somewhat primitive and crude ; 
a vigorous bout at quarter-staves, a lusty drubbing, the extravagant 
pranks of a mediaeval devil, were simple and unfailing receipts to 
shake the ribs of the groundlings. If Shakespeare was a pupil of 
Greene's in comedy, he was an intelligent pupil, who knew what 
to remember and what to forget. 

Except as regards the form of his verse and prose it cannot be 
said that Shakespeare, as a writer of comedy, was ever in a true 
sense in discipleship to any master. He found suggestions, and 
used them, but he took his own way. The history of his develop- 
ment consists in great measure in the gradual coalescing of the 
various faculties from which poetry may be derived. In his latest 



648 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

comedies intellect and emotion are fused together; wit has been 
taken up into moral wisdom \ imagination in its highest reach is 
united with the simple, primary feelings of our humanity ; gaiety 
and seriousness interpenetrate each other; tenderness and pity are 
alive in the breast of the comic Muse; the laughter is often the 
laughter of human sympathy and of a pathetic joy ; if we smile at 
the quaint forms of the hieroglyph of life, we know that it has a 
deep and sacred meaning. From the outset Shakespeare thought 
of comedy as a mirror of human life, which should reflect things 
sad and serious as well as mirthful, and which by its magic power 
should convert pain into pleasure ; but the two elements of Shake- 
spearian comedy exist side by side in the earliest plays ; they are 
not yet fused into one. In the main, Shakespeare at first relied 
upon his nimble brain, and aimed at exciting laughter by comic 
surprises, contrasts, and incongruities which lie upon the surface 
of things and are the offspring of accident rather than of character. 
His delight in wit-combats and word-play is a transference to lan- 
guage of the same feeling which made him delight in the errors and 
disguisings of his persons. There is a laughter which arises from 
no profounder cause than titillation ; the harlequinade of words, 
leaping one over the other, parrying, riposting, and suddenly disap- 
pearing under a mask of invisibility, yet still striking, as it were, 
out of the shadow, serves as a titillation of the brain. 

Shakespeare's Development as a Comic Dramatist. — In his earliest 
group of comedies. Loves Labour s Lost^ The Comedy of Errors^ The 
Two Gentlemen of Verona^ A Midsummer Night's Dream^ dating per- 
haps from about 1590 to about 1594, Shakespeare experimented in 
various directions. We might name the group that of his transfor- 
mation plays. The comic surprise, the comic incongruity is that of 
man suddenly converted from his true to a false self or from a false 
self to a true. Human will is here the sport of nature or the sport 
of accident. Nothing is but what is not. The vowed students of 
Navarre are betrayed into the very opposite of their assumed selves 
by the power of nature and of love. Proteus, the servant of Julia, 
the comrade of Valentine, forsakes his mistress and his friend, and 
is as suddenly reconverted. The brothers Antipholus and the 
brothers Dromio are so shuffled together by the juggler Chance, 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 649 

that we question if any personal identity will survive and reemerge 
at the close. Whether Lysander and Demetrius will awake the 
rival lovers of Helena or the rival lovers of Hermia, or whether 
Lysander will love Hermia and Demetrius Helena, depends on the 
merest luck of fairy-land. But nature and luck are on the side of 
love \ all will be set right before the end. And because women lie 
closer to nature than men, and their affections hold the bent with 
the directness and certaility of nature, they are true and constant 
to themselves, neither deluding their hearts with pseudo-ideals, nor 
changed by the play of circumstances from what they are, but using 
their woman's wit and woman's will to attain their proper ends. 

Love's Labour s Lost has the air of a young writer's effort to be 
original, and to dazzle by unflagging cleverness ; whence at times 
a tedium of wit. Shakespeare seems to have resolved to owe his 
plot to no man, with the result that it is somewhat too much a 
prepared vehicle for the exposition of an idea. The little cloister 
of culture, where education is to be a fine art removed from nature, 
is invaded by woman, and with the entrance of woman enters 
nature, which has more of wisdom to impart than alj the academies 
or schools. The denouement must be as original as the general 
design ; death arrives in the midst of mirth ; there shall be no wed- 
dings in the fifth act ; love's labour is lost ; or, if not lost, its reward 
is deferred a twelvemonth ; the scholars turned lovers are still in- 
fected with something of unreality and affectation, exhaling their 
sentiment in Petrarchan ingenuities, and one of them, Biron, with 
his mocking humour, takes life too proudly and wilfully ; the mad 
girls of France are at heart serious, and they will test their lovers 
by a year of genuine probation, then, and not till then, the marriage 
bells shall ring. The Spanish fantastico, Don Adriano, towering 
in stature, though not in wit, above his minion page, and the 
learned schoolmaster Holofernes, much admired of his companion 
pedant, the curate, resemble stock figures of Italian comedy. 
Affectations of language — the decorated dialect of fashion, the 
pedantries of scholarship not too profound — are also departures 
from nature, and must submit to the laughter of good sense. 
Nature may, indeed, be mended by art, for nature in its first rudi- 
ments, as seen in honest Costard and goodman Dull, is not wholly 



650 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

a thing of beauty and of joy, but the art which mends nature must 
be, as the wise Polixenes afterwards declared, an art that nature 
makes. Love's Labour s Lost — the Pr'ecieuses ridicules of Shake- 
speare, but with men for the presenters of preciosity and women as 
the exponents of good sense — is a comedy of dialogue rather than 
of incident. The stage is kept alive with much tossing about of 
brains in wit-encounters, with maskings and disguisings, and with 
that marred show of the Nine Worthies, a heroi-comic forerunner 
of the tedious, brief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe, 
in which the hard-handed men of Athens appear before Duke 
Theseus. 

The Comedy of Errors is a comedy of incident. Here Shake- 
speare accepts his plot, his chief characters, and their adventures 
from Plautus. But the adventures are complicated by his addition 
of the two Dromios, which more than doubles the possibilities of 
ludicrous confusion. The fun cannot be too fast or furious ; the 
unexpected always happens ; the discovery is staved off to the fifth 
act with infinite skill ; the nearer each brother approaches his fellow, 
the more impossible it becomes for them to meet. Nowhere has 
Shakespeare ravelled and unravelled the threads of an intrigue with 
such incomparable dexterity as in this early play. But Shake- 
peare's imagination could not rest satisfied with a farce, however 
laughable or however skilfully conducted. His vein of lyrical poetry 
breaks forth in the love-episode, for the sake of which he created 
Luciana. And he has set the entire comic business in a romantic 
and pathetic framework — the story of the afflicted old ^Egeon and 
the Ephesian abbess, in whom he discovers his lost wife. The 
play opens with grief and the doom of death impending over an 
innocent life ; it closes, after a cry of true pathos, with reconciling 
joy, and the interval is filled with laughter that peals to a climax. 
This is not the manner of Plautus ; but laughter with Shakespeare 
would seem hard and barren — the crackling of thorns under a 
pot, — if it were wholly isolated from grief and love and joy. 

Shakespeare did not again attempt the comedy of mere incident. 
In The Two Gentlemen of Verona he struck into his favourite tune 
— the comedy of romance. Among its sources is the Spanish 
pastoral of Jorge de Montemayor, but the scene is Italy, the 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 651 

woman-country wooed in this play before it was wed by the imagi- 
nation of its poet in The Merchant of Venice. The theme is love, 
its fidelity and its infidelity — love with its incalculable surprises, 
love with its unalterable constancy. The characters are lightly yet 
gracefully outlined ; there are the grave and reverend seniors ; the 
contrasted pairs of lovers ; the waiting-woman ; and the clownish 
men-servants, to whom the business of laughter is intrusted. The 
persons are somewhat mechanically set over, one against the other, 

— Valentine the loyal against the fickle Proteus, Silvia the sprightly 
against the tender Julia, Speed the professional wit against Launce 
the unconscious humourist, whose filial aff^ections and amorous 
desires for the milkmaid, who has more qualities than a water- 
spaniel, are only secondary to his devotion to the cur Crab, a dog, 
indeed, to whose share some canine errors fall, but endowed with 
more qualities than a wilderness of milkmaids. The disguising of 
Julia in masculine attire anticipates many such disguisings in later 
comedies. It is no frolic masking like that of the girls of PVance, 
but part of the serious-playful romance of a woman's brave and 
gentle heart. The blank verse is sweet and regular rather than 
swift or powerful in dramatic movement ; rhyme is less frequently 
used than heretofore ; the prose of Launce's soliloquies has a 
homely directness and vigour. 

In A Midsummer Night's Dream comedy becomes lyrical. Char- 
acter is subordinate to incident, but incident here has a dreamlike 
quality, which unites itself with the poetry of a fantastic world. It 
is a comedy of errors, — the errors of a night, — but the confusions 
are not external and material as in the adventures of the brothers 
Antipholus ; they are inward and psychological ; the bewilderment 
is one of passions, not of persons. The triumph of the poet lies 
before all else in the power which he shows of harmonizing mate- 
rials seemingly the most incongruous. The magnificence of The- 
seus and his Amazonian bride, — power in the full tide of prosperity, 

— the crossed and wayward loves of youths and maidens, the mini- 
kin-mighty strifes of fairy-land and its roguish sports, the artistic 
pains and illustrious ineptitude of the crew of hempen homespuns 

— all these are wrought together in a dream which we accept with 
a tranquil and delighted wonder. 



652 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

The power of the human will is, as it were, suspended in this 
play of elfland magic. Before The Merchant of Venice was written, 
Shakespeare's feeling for dramatic action and passion had been 
deepened and invigorated by his progress in dealing with English 
history and probably by the creation of a great tragedy, Romeo and 
yuliety the tragedy of love and youth and death. The Merchant of 
Venice is Shakespeare's first, and perhaps his most remarkable, ex- 
ample of the comedy of character. Here we pass from the realm 
of caprice to that of human volition. A passive object, the mer- 
chant, is placed in the midst as a prize to be contended for by 
forces naturally adverse — the passion of concentrated revenge and 
the spirit of charity, armed with the brightest weapons of intelli- 
gence. The masculine and the feminine powers enter upon a 
single combat, and victory remains with mercy and love, the " Ewig- 
weibliche." No such figure as that of Shylock had previously 
appeared upon the English stage. In his person Shakespeare not 
only lays bare the nerve and muscle of a wrestler in the game of 
life, but studies the darker and sadder features of a race. He is 
no incredible monster like the Barabas of Marlowe, but a man, 
whose origins and environment have made him what he is ; whom, 
therefore, we understand and whom in his very pitilessness we are 
constrained to pity. Nor had the English stage hitherto seen any 
woman so complex in her various powers of intellect, emotions, 
will, so single in their harmonious cooperance, as the noble lady of 
Belmont. The same energy of resolve which makes her the armed 
champion of Antonio had lain hidden in her loyalty to the arduous 
conditions of her father's will. The dramatist in this play postu- 
lates our acceptance of certain external improbabilities ; these con- 
cessions made, all things are wrought out in accordance with the 
laws of life. The spirit of tragedy here is neighbour to the comic 
spirit, yet observes the finest decorum. Two actions — that of the 
caskets and that of the pound of flesh — work into each other 
without a jar and become one. The characters are grouped with 
perfect freedom and with an exact, though unobtruded, ordon- 
nance, for Shakespeare's art had now learnt to conceal itself. The 
fifth act of the plav is a kind of lovely epilogue, where, after the 
strained anxiety of the trial-scene, joy is preserved from its own 
excess by the instinct of self-mockery. 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 653 

It may be that the humbler humorous scenes of the English 
historical plays on which he was now engaged drew down the 
imagination of Shakespeare as a writer of comedy from romance to 
realism, and made him content to work for a little while in rougher 
material. The Taming of the Shrew ^ whatever its chronological 
place may be, is only a spirited adaptation of an older play, and is 
chiefly interesting as an example of Shakespeare's art in transposing, 
developing, enriching with detail, the ideas of a predecessor, and as 
a demonstration of the temper with which he could kindle a prede- 
cessor's allegro into an allegro con brio. With old Sly's son of Burton 
heath, the village sot, he was upon his native soil, and he could 
heighten his original with low-life reminiscences of Warwickshire 
taverns. The Merry Wives of Windsor is a direct offshoot from the 
greater comedy of Falstaff which is incorporated in the historical 
plays. The tradition that it was hastily written by command of 
Queen Elizabeth, who desired to see " Falstaff in love," relieves us 
from the necessity of supposing that Shakespeare voluntarily de- 
graded his indomitable jester into the flouting-stock of a bourgeois 
fabliau, "Well I am your theme: you have the start of me; lam 
dejected ; . . . ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me ; use me as 
you will." That Shakespeare should throw himself with spirit into 
his task was a crime for which he earns our forgiveness by its suc- 
cessful issue. The merry wives are honest buxom dames, without a 
grain of real malice in them. The French physician and the Welsh 
parson murder the Queen's English with as happy a valiance as that 
of Fluellen and the Princess Katharine in King Henry V. Slender 
is the most delightfully incompetent of wooers — a Romeo manque 
of Windsor, whose amorous passion waits upon his cousin Shallow's 
promptings and whose wit is mislaid with his Book of Riddles. 
The buck-basket and the old woman of Brentford are very palpable 
jokes, which the crassest gentleman-usher or emptiest-headed maid- 
in-waiting could not miss. There are the proper topical allusions 
to call forth an interchange of smiling mutual intelligence. Alto- 
gether The Merry Wives was a comedy delicate enough for a 
queen. For such a play the proper medium was prose ; verse is 
reserved for the slender love-episode of Fenton and Anne Page, 
and for the scenes connected with the fairy disguising. 



654 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

As the pressure of the English historical plays lightened, Shake- 
speare could turn again to Italy and to romance. In The Merry 
'Wives he had grouped his characters in a circle around a gross old 
self-lover, whom it was their business to delude and mock. Per- 
haps the same device could be refined upon and turned to romantic 
uses. Falstaff had professed love and had been convicted of sordid 
self-interest. What if a pair of high-spirited persons, touched with 
the egotism of self-sufficingness and wilful wit, and professing a 
superiority to the toys of lovers, could be ensnared into that deep 
mutual passion which was in truth written for them in the book of 
fate ? But there must be something deeper here than a jest ; such 
brave union of hearts must be cemented by a common effort to 
confront the sorrow of the world. At this time, perhaps, Shake- 
speare was concerned with his revision of Loves Labour s Lost. 
Might not Biron and Rosaline be reincarnated, and in place of that 
crude test of a twelve months' visitation of the speechless sick 
decreed for Biron, might not an immediate test of valiant manhood 
be discovered, and the newer Biron come to the happy ending of 
love's labour's won ? In Beatrice and Benedick a brilliant centre 
was found for the play of Much Ado about Nothing. The high spirits, 
which gave life to The Shrew and The Merry Wives are here refined 
by gallantry and beauty, wit and grace, and by the presence of 
injury and pain. The other dramatis personce gather around the 
hero and heroine to beguile them into love ; the passion begotten 
of a jest is brought forth in sorrow, and sorrow at the close is con- 
verted into joy. With so much of quick and lambent dialogue as 
Beatrice and Benedick have to utter, we want no outstanding jester 
here; his speech would be an impertinence; but we need a counter- 
foil to wit in the unconscious humour of a Dogberry and a Verges ; 
and these worthies assist effectively in the action of the play ; Fate, 
the sphinx, assumes an ironic smile; the dulness of a blundering 
watchman unties a knot which has foiled the dexterity of the wise. 

The comedy which followed Much Ado about Nothing is one of 
sunshine and dappled shadow under the greenwood of Arden. Land- 
seer's companion pictures, " War " and " Peace," find a parallel in 
Shakespeare's King Henry V. and As Tou Like It., which probably 
belong to the same year ; and the scene of both the history and the 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 655 

comedy is laid in France. He would have left untouched a favour- 
ite theme of the Renaissance if he had wholly neglected the pastoral ; 
but Shakespeare felt that the conventional pastoral alone, with its 
cruel shepherdess and sighing swain, however suitable for a piece 
of poetical tapestry, could not furnish the life and body and move- 
ment demanded by the stage. His Silvius and Phoebe, Arcadians 
of the mode and rhetoricians in verse, are presented with a certain 
reserved irony ; the veritable rustics are William, whose pretty wit 
chiefly manifests itself in monosyllabic answers, and the wench 
Audrey, whom the gods did not make poetical. Touchstone, a 
clown among courtiers, is a courtier among clowns. The other 
persons of the comedy are of the high-bred class, in the midst of 
which the dramatist's imagination moved with most pleasure, but 
here they are transported into a delightful open-air environment, 
which breathes a freshness and sweetness into their spirits. " Sweet 
are the uses of adversity," and especially of such adversity as that 
of Rosalind, which enables her, in her disguise as Ganymede, to 
assist in her own wooing and to play the part of a benevolent god- 
dess of destiny for several pairs of lovers including Orlando and 
herself. We learn from a play of Ben Jonson's of the same date 
that melancholy was a genteel fashion of the day. Shakespeare, on 
the suggestion of a current affectation, created in Jaques a character 
which was wholly original. Humourist, sentimentalist, critic, and 
cynic, he is the self-conscious seeker for new experiences, the 
dilettante collector of curiosities to be labelled in his museum as 
states of a human soul. 

The midsummer of Shakespeare's comedy is reached in Twelfth 
Night. Was it his effort to resist the invasion of sadder thought 
which raised its mirth to the reeling heights of Sir Toby's Illyrian 
bacchanals ? We dare not venture such a surmise, for the light 
and warmth are at flood-tide. The voluptuous love-languors of 
the Duke and Olivia's luxury of grief fatten the idle soil for the 
blossoming of the rose. The disease of overmuch prosperity in 
the palaces of Illyria seems set over against the sanity of adversity 
in the forest of Arden. Viola, in her disguises as Cesario, has a 
harder task than the banished Rosalind ; for instead of assisting at 
her own wooing, she is required to plead as an envoy of love 



656 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

against herself. In place of the dilettante egotist Jaques, who 
would range through all experiences, we have here the solemn self- 
lover, Malvolio, pinnacled in his own sense of importance and his 
code of formal proprietv, yet toppling from his heights to so gro- 
tesque a fall. Had Shakespeare encountered some starched Eliza- 
bethan Puritan, who looked sourly on the theatre, and thought that 
because he was virtuous there should be no more cakes and ale, 
and did the dramatist read a humorous lesson to his time on an 
error more deep-seated in the human heart than the excesses of a 
joyous temper ? Was the comic spirit here a swordsman armed 
with the blade of reason and good sense ? If such was the case, 
Shakespeare was assuredlv no partisan, and Sir Toby Belch is hardly 
his ideal representative of a liberal humanism. 

After the play of Twelfth Night we become aware of the first 
ebb of summer. It has been suggested that the events shadowed 
forth in the Sonnets took some of the joy out of Shakespeare's heart. 
It has been suggested that the fall of Essex, involving the disgrace 
of the poet's patron Southampton, tended to embitter his spirit. 
These are conjectures that cannot be verified. What is certain is, 
that he turned toward tragedv, and that his temper in comedv indi- 
cates a gathering of the clouds. The spirit of All's JVell that E?ids 
Well is as courageous as is the title of the plav ; and there is a 
need for courage, not of the gay and sportive kind, but serious and 
steadfast. The hero is no gallant Orlando or high-spirited Bene- 
dick. He has in him, we must suppose, the possibilities of noble 
manhood, but these are obscured bv the errors and the vices of 
youth. The heroine is no glad-hearted girl like Rosalind, no 
scatterer of coruscating jests like Beatrice, but a woman, clear- 
sighted, strong-willed, and bent on achieving her purpose. She, 
the poor daughter of a phvsician, is a healer in a world that stands 
in need of healing. The bright-winged Cupid of nods and becks 
and wreathed smiles has been transformed into Love, the phvsician. 
Helena, honoured and cherished bv all who know her aright, is 
rejected by the one man on whom her heart is fixed, and whom she 
rescues from his baser self with something of that maternal pro- 
tectiveness, which in certain instances constitutes the nucleus of 
wifely love. The Countess is Shakespeare's creation, and nowhere 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 657 

has he made age more beautiful. The comic business Hes chiefly 
in the unmasking of the pretender, Parolles. It is required both 
by the action and the ethics of the play, but there is little to afford 
us pleasure in the humiliation of so paltry a miles glor'iosus. 

The atmosphere darkens in Measure for Measure. In the city 
of Vienna corruption boils and bubbles. From the Duke's deputy 
to the lowest drudge of vice, society is infected with the festering 
evil. To deal with the subtleties of sin, virtue itself must learn 
crafty ways; mines must be opposed by countermines. In Claudio 
the passions of youth, snatching too eagerly at unlicensed satisfac- 
tion, are brought into the presence of death; and to life, tender and 
florid, the vast regions of the grave are full of obscurity and uncer- 
tain horror. It is hardly a scene for the joy of love, though to 
two strong hearts love may come in the end as the sequel of a 
common struggle for justice and moral reformation. Rather is it 
a place for the trials and the victory of virgin chastity. The Duke 
moves through subterranean passages, guided by the dark lantern 
of moral prudence. Isabella illuminates the gloom with the light 
of an indignant saintliness. Here it is no pompous formalist who 
is humiliated ; no common pretender who is detected and delivered 
over to laughter ; the deadliest ambushes of evil are attacked ; the 
heart, " deceitful above all things and desperately wicked," is laid 
bare. Angelo, the self-deceiver, is exposed not merely to others, 
but to himself; he gazes down appalled into the abyss discovered 
in his own soul. We have travelled far from the fresh wild-wood 
paths of Arden and from the glowing gardens of Illyria. 

No problems connected with the plays of Shakespeare are more 
diflicult of solution than those offered by the satiric drama, in which 
matter from the story of Troy is handled in so enigmatic a fashion. 
Shall we place Troilus and Cressida hard by Measure for Measure., or 
date it some six years later, regarding it as a successor in comedy 
to the tragic study of the misanthrope in Timon of Athens? The 
evidence inclines in favour of the earlier date. Is some of the 
wood, hay, and stubble of the lost Troilus and Cressida of Dekker 
and Chettle imbedded in Shakespeare's play ? Is it a satire of 
humanity or of contemporary individuals ? Was this the " purge " 
which Shakespeare administered to Ben Jonson, and, with Jonson 



658 Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

disguised as Ajax, and Marston as Thersites, was the play one of 
those alarums and excursions connected with the war of the 
theatres, in which Marston, Dekker, and Jonson were the princi- 
pal combatants ? - Is Cressida a malicious portrait of the deceitful 
enchantress of the Sonnets^ and was a satirical presentment of the 
heroes of Homer a retort upon the rival poet, conjectured to be 
Chapman, the translator of Homer, who had stolen away the 
favour of Shakespeare's young friend and patron. These questions 
remain unanswered. We can only say that the spirit of this 
comedy of disillusion is alien to that of genuine comedy as con- 
ceived by Shakespeare in his happier days. The young love of 
Troilus is betrayed by the courtesan born. Achilles is a dull- 
brained fellow, barren of wit, who sulks or wantons in his tent ; 
Ajax is a clumsy elephant ; Thersites lives on garbage, and spews 
his filth ; Pandar is a lecher, incapable except by proxy ; to fight on 
account of Helen is to set the world at odds for an harlot, yet on 
her behalf it is that Hector, knowing the folly of it, dies. Troilus^ 
is indeed a gallant youth, but his passion is a greenhorn's infatua- 
tion : let him be cured of it by surgical incision, however cruel ! 
Shall we say that Troilus and Cressida and Measure for Measure are 
connected by a certain contrast and resemblance ? In each the 
world is bubbling with corruption. The mighty persons of the 
earth in the one play are as ignoble as the mean persons of the other ; 
the confraternity of Mistress Overdone includes the champions of 
the world and their renowned lady-loves ; the worldly wisdom of the 
Duke is lowered and broadened into the all-embracing but wholly 
mundane experience of Ulysses ; and in this sorry society it is from 
worldly wisdom alone that we can hope for any rescue or deliver- 
ance, for here we find no saintly Isabella, but a Cressida, offering 
her lips to everv solicitor of the Grecian tents. 

The spirit of mirth withdrew itself for a time from Shakespeare's 
art. He could still write comic scenes, but they were used to 
deepen the effects of tragedy. The grave-diggers of Hamlet^ the 
porter turning the key of hell-gate on the night of murder in Mac- 
beth^ Lear's poor fool jesting across the storm upon the heath, the 

1 On this subject, see The War of the Theatres^ by Mr. J. H. Penniman, 1897, and The 
Stage-Barrel between Ben Jonson and the so-called Poetasters by R. A. Small (Breslau, 1899). 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 659 

clown whose basket of figs conceals the worm of Nilus — these are 
humorous figures created in the service of pity and terror. Shake- 
speare did not return to comedy until his perception of the world 
and human life had been purified by the tragic katharsis. With 
every faculty of his mind labouring at its highest, he had pursued 
a long dramatic inquisition of the evil that is in the world and in 
the heart of man. He had not retreated into any facile creed of 
pleasant optimism, but boldly explored the face of night, and night 
had brought out the stars. Such love as that of Cordelia, such 
loyalty as that of Kent, could be fully revealed only in and through 
the darkness. Man pleased Shakespeare and woman also, when he 
wrote his tragedies, else the players would have had lenten enter- 
tainment ; for a drama founded upon misanthropy would have been 
unendurable. In Ttnion of Athens the poet exhibits misanthropy as 
the evasion of weakness from the ruins of a self-indulgent optimism, 
and we may say that in Timon of Athens he bade farewell to gloom. 
Shakespeare's latest comedies — Pericles (as far as it is his), Cym- 
heline^ The Winter's Tale^ The Tempest — form a group, which is 
distinguished by a special character. The atmosphere is light and 
pellucid, like that which follows a thunder-storm. There is a great 
and wide serenity abroad ; the heavens seem more spacious, and 
they bend down to embrace the margins of the land. The healing 
influences of nature are felt in the country lanes where Autolycus 
sings his tirra-lirra, and the meadows where Perdita follows her 
sheep, on the seacoast of Tarsus where Marina bears her basket 
of flowers, among the wild Welsh mountains with the gallant sons 
of Cymbeline, on the enchanted island full of " sounds and sweet 
airs that give delight and hurt not." The life of cities and courts 
had lost much of its attraction for one who perhaps was now find- 
ing repose and restoration among the Warwickshire fields. But 
Shakespeare did not plead, in the manner of Rousseau, for a rever- 
sion to the primitive conditions of humanity ; he could smile at 
Gonzalo's imaginary commonwealth, where property has no exist- 
ence ; he saw in Caliban the rudimentary man not half informed 
with soul ; he had faith in an art which mends nature, while yet it 
is an art which nature makes. And nature itself, with all of human 
life, seems to hang, dreamlike and yet real, in the encompassing 



66o Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 

power of something that is above nature and that means well, how- 
ever little we can trace its ways. Dian appears to Pericles in a 
vision, guiding him to her temple where joy awaits him; the inno- 
cence of Hermione is vindicated by the oracle of Apollo ; Posthu- 
mus in prison is visited by Jupiter, giving him assurance of divine 
succour — "whom best I love I cross"; Prospero is aided in his 
beneficent designs by ministering elemental spirits. The growing 
resources of the Jacobean stage assisted the dramatist in scenic 
effects, to which he imparted a beautiful significance. The temper 
of these latest plays is a temper of reconciliation ; the wrongs of 
life are present, but for those who can transcend the baser passions 
they work for good. Injuries are felt but are forgiven ; broken 
bonds of afi^ection are reunited ; the lost are restored to hearts that 
have loved and suftered. " The oldest hath borne most," says 
Albany in the closing lines of King Lear. The old are seen in 
these last romances of Shakespeare as experienced in suffering, 
caused by the offence of others or by the errors of their own hearts ; 
but they have learnt through suffering a certain detachment from 
the greed of personal gain, and they lean over the joy of young 
hearts, still immersed in the innocent egoism of youth, with a fond 
protectiveness. Cymbeline and his recovered sons, Pericles and 
Marina, Hermione and Perdita, Prospero and Miranda — it is the 
same sentiment, varied and repeated, in each of its exemplars. Cer- 
tain indications that Shakespeare was loosening his connection with 
the theatre are present in these plays. He could, as in the instance 
of Pericles and perhaps in those of King Henry VIII. and The Two 
Noble Kinsmen contribute fragments to a drama in which, as a whole, 
he took little interest. In plays of which he is the sole author, his 
dramatic energy flags at times, to be renewed where the subject 
moved his feelings or charmed his imagination. The versification 
is breeze-like in its freedom, but sometimes the breeze falls away 
and sometimes it wanders with too vague an aim. The treatment 
of time passes from the extreme of romantic license, as in The 
Winter s Tale^ to the strictest observation of the rule of unity in 
The Tempest. In Pericles., the earliest of these romances, Shake- 
speare cared only for certain scenes and situations. In Cymbeline.^ 
wherever Imogen, the loveliest figure in his gallery of portraits of 



Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist 66 1 

women appears, we are certain to receive his finest workmanship. 
Hermlone and Perdita wholly possessed his imagination, while a 
crude sketch sufficed for the jealousy of Leontes. The Tempest^ if 
we set aside the laborious jesting of Antonio and Sebastian (designed 
to express the barren brain that often accompanies a callous heart), 
is wrought with equal power from the first scene to the last. 

Perhaps the conjecture Is well founded that The Tempest^ with Its 
masque of wedding blessings, was written for the marriage of Prin- 
cess Elizabeth to Frederick, Elector Palatine, in February, 1613. 
Perhaps it was Shakespeare's latest play. And It may not be alto- 
gether an Idle notion of the poet Campbell, that in Prospero's 
breaking his magic staff and dismissing his airy spirits we have the 
farewell to the stage of the great enchanter who had summoned 
Prospero into being. 

Shakespeare found poetic comedy in its rudiments; he left It 
fully formed. He brought together its various elements and or- 
ganized them to fulfil the functions of a single living spirit. He 
made laughter wise, and taught seriousness how to be winning and 
gracious. Through no ascetic doctrine but by virtue of the spirit 
of life and beauty he purified the drama from the dulness of what 
is gross, and kept its temper above the seductions of sentimental 
morals and a nerveless lubricity. Wit, fancy, grace, constructive 
dexterity, are found among his successors. Shakespeare's sane out- 
look upon life as a whole, his gentleness of strength In dealing with 
the passions, his reserve of power, his moral wisdom, were lost to 
English comedy when Prospero abjured his magic and retired to the 
duties of his Stratford lordship of the soil. 

Edward Dowden. 



INDEX 



OF HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL MATERIALS 



Aberdeen, Records of, xxxviii. 

Acolasttis, the, by Gnapheus (W. Fullo- 
nius), transl. by Palsgrave, Ixx, Ixxi, 
Ixxxi. 

Acting and actors : in churches, xiii, xv, 
xix, xxi; in schools, xiv, Ixix; in 
churchyards, xii; by crafts, xviii, xx, 
xxxiii ; the councils against mimi, 
xix, xl; actors of Wakefield, xxv; 
mummers, xl; English actors in Ger- 
many, xlv; acting at Cambridge, Ixxi, 
197 ; Udall and school actors, 98; 
Lyly and boy actors, 265-268, 270, 
279; Greene and the companies, 399, 
403, 408, 411, 418; Porter and the 
companies, 515, 516, 519-522, 524, 
526-527. 

Admiral's men, the, {i.e. under patron- 
age of Lord Charles Howard, Earl of 
Nottingham, 1 585-1 603) and Greene, 
403, 408, 410; and Porter, 515-517, 
520-528, et passim. 

Agamemnon, Dekker and Chettle's, 523. 

Agrippa, Henry Cornelius (von Nettes- 
heim), 281. 

Alberti, his Philodoxeos, Ixvii. 

Albyo7t Knight, Ixxxvi. 

Alcmceon, the play of, 268. 

Alda, Latin play by William of Blois, xvii. 

Aldrich, Robert, and Udall, 92. 

Alen9on, the due d\ and Endymion, 268. 

Alexander, the Life of by Plutarch, 269, 
283, et seq. 



Alexander and Campaspe, by Lyly, edi- 
tion of, with essay, by Professor Baker, 
263-333; dates, sources, literary esti- 
mate, etc., 268-276. 

Alexander and Lodozvick, by Martin 
Slater, 523, 526. 

Alexandrine, the Middle English, 189. 

Allegory, and the drama, xxxvii, xl, Ixxxi, 
xcii, 267. 

AUeyn, Edward, and Greene's plays, 408, 
410; catalogue of his MSS. at Dul- 
wich, 515; acquaintance with Porter, 
524. 

AUeyn, Richard, an actor in the Admiral's 
company, 524. 

All for Money, Lupton's, xlviii, li, 
Ixxxvi. 

Allott, his England'' s Parnassus, 421. 

All's IV ell that Ends ^F^//, Shakespeare's, 
191, 656. 

Alphojisus, Emperor of Germany., by 
Chapman, attributed to Peele, 336. 

Alphonsus, King of Arragon, Comicall 
Historie of, by Greene, 389, 403-405, 
407, 410, 411, 421. 

Andria, of Terence, the English transla- 
tion of, Ixviii, Ixxi, 107. 

Antichrist legend, Protestant version of 
the, Ixxv. 

Apius and Virginia, 1 he tragical comedy 
of by R. B., Ixxxvi, 141, 336, 341. 

Apollodorus Tarsensis, compared with 
Peele, 337. 



663 



664 



Index 



Apuleius, Adlington's translation of his 
Metamorphoses of the Golden Ass, a 
possible source of Peek's * Meroe,' 

346, 3^3- 

Arber, Professor E., his English Garner, 
89; his reprint of /Roister Bolster, 90, 
104, 194; his Transcripts of the Sta- 
tioners' Registers, 97, 197, 347, et pas- 
sim. 

ArchcEologia, on Udall, 93. 

Archiv fiir das Studium der neueren 
Sprachen, on Peele, 348. 

Aretino, his Poliscene, Ixvii. 

Ariosto, \i\% I Suppositi, Ixviii, Gascoigne's 
translation of, Ixxv, Ixxxiv; compared 
with Peele, 337; his Orlando Furioso, 

389. 

Argumentative plays, debats, and contro- 
versial morals, Ixv, Ixvi, Ixxv, xci; 
Heywood's, 10. 

Arraignment of Paris, The, by Peele, 

33^, 341. 
Ascension, The, Wakefield play of, xxvi, 

xxvii. 
Ascham, Roger, referred to, 135. 
Asotus, the, by Macropedius, Ixx. 
Ass, Feast of the, xx, xxi. 
As You Like It, by Shakespeare, Ixv, 275, 

645, 654, 655. 

Babio, a I^atin elegiac comedy, xviii. 

Baker, D. E. (with Reed and Jones), his 
Biographia Dramatica, 200, 348. 

Baker, Professor G. P., Critical Essay on 
Lyly, his life and place in comedy, 
with special reference to Alexander 
and Campaspe, 263-277; edition of 
A. and C, with notes, 278-333. 

Bale, Bishop, his Catalogus, xviii, 89, 93; 
translation oi Pammachius, Ixx, Ixxi; 
his Kyng Johan, Ixxii, Ixxv. 

Ballad plays, xli. 

Bandello, 645. 

Barclay, Alexander, and fool-literature, 
lii, liii. 



Bardani, xli. 

Barry, Lodowick, the song of "Three 
merrie men " in his Ram Alley, 
352. 

Bartholomew Fayre, by Ben Jonson, In- 
duction to, 410. 

Basoche, clercs de la, Ixvi. 

Battle of Alcazar, The, by Peele, 335, 337, 

341. ~^ — 

Baucis, a Latin elegiac comedy, xviii. 

Bayne, on Henry Porter in Diet. Nat. 
Biog., 519. 

Beaumont and ■ Fletcher, and the play 
within a play, 343. 

Beaux Stratagem, The, by Farquhar, re- 
ferred to, 429. 

Bernhardi, his R. Greeners Leben u. 
Schriften, 397, 411. 

Bewick and Grahame, the ballad, re- 
ferred to, 366. 

Bibbiena, Cardinal de, his Calandria, 
Ixviii. 

Biblical miracles, xiii-xxxvii; genre 
drama, idyllic or heroic miracle, Ixxvi. 

Bien-Avise et Mal-Avis'e, a French mo- 
ralit'e, liii, Ixxii. 

Birde, William, and Henry Porter, 516. 

Blacke Battmati of the North, Porter's 
relation to the play, 515, 521, 522. 

Blank Verse, Peele's, 339, 340; Greene's, 
404, 407, 414, 417; on the rhetorical 
quality of dramatic; examination of 
Greene's practice, and a few general 
conclusions, 503-513. 

Bloody Brother, The, by Fletcher, Jonson, 
et al., parodies "Three merry men," 

352. 

Blount, Edward, publisher of Lyly's 
plays, 269, 276. 

Blyssyd Sacrament, The, Croxton play of, 
xxxix. 

Boase and Qark, Register of Univ. Ox- 
ford, and the two Henry Porters, 
518. 

Boccaccio, G., 645. 



Index 



665 



Bodel, Jean, his play of St. Nicholas, 
xvi. 

Bojardo, his Timone, Ixviii. 

Bower, his Scolichronicon, on Robin 
Hood, xli. 

Bower, the R. B. of Apitis and Virginia 
(Fleay's conjecture), Ixxxvi, 336. 

Boy Bishop, the election of the, xx, xxi. 

Bradley, Henry, mentioned, Ixxii ; his 
Critical Essay on Gammer Gurton^s 
Nedle, 197-204; date of Gammer 
Gurton's Nedle, and its authorship, 
by Wm. Stevenson, 197 ; place of G, 
G. N. in the history of comedy, 202 ; 
dialect, 203 ; previous editions and 
the present text, 204 ; edition of G. 
G. N'., 205-257 ; appendix, 259. 

Brand, the Rev. John, his Popular An- 
tiquities,' iz'j, 192. 

Brandl, Professor A., his Quellen u. 
Forschungen d. weltlichen Dramas 
in England, referred to, Ix, Ixxiii, 
Ixxiv, Ixxx, Ixxxii, Ixxxvii. 

Brandt, Sebastian, his Narrenschiff, lii, 
liii. 

Brasenose, the College Register of, and 
Henry Porter, 520. 

Bridges, Dr. John, and Gammer Gur- 
ton's Nedle, 1 99 ; his Defence of the 
Government of the Church, 200. 

Briggs, the Rev. Thomas, his copy of 
Roister Doister, 97. 

Broome, William, and Alex, and Camp., 
276, 

Brotherhood in Arms, Scott on the insti- 
tution, 366. 

Brown, Professor J. M., on Greene {An 
Early Rival of Shakespeare, Auck- 
land, 1877), 402, 405, 410, 415, 
417. 

Brute Grenshillde, and Henslowe, 523. 

Bucher, K., Arbeit u. Rhythmus, referred 
to, on songs of labour, 384. 

Buffeting, The, Wakefield play of, xxvii, 
xxviii. 



Bugbears, The, a comedy of intrigue, 
Ixxxviii. 

Bulaeus, on the Ludus de S. Katharina, 
xiv. 

Bullen, Mr. A. H., his edition of Peele, 
346, 348 ; see, also, notes to Gum- 
mere's edition of O. IV. T.; on 
Henry Porter, 519. 

Burby, Cuthbert, publisher, and Greene's 
plays, 418, etc. 

Burlesque in church and festival plays, 
xix-xxi ; in miracle cycles, xxiv, xxix, 
xxxvi ; in farces, Ixv, Ixvi ; in school 
plays, Ixxi-lxxii, Ixxv. 

Cadman, Thos., and Lyly's plays, 276. 
Cain, the York play of, xxv. 
Calandria, the, by Bibbiena, Ixviii. 
Calisto and Meliboea, by Cota and de 

Rojas, Ixviii; the English play, Ixxii. 
Cambyses, KingofPercia, etc., by Thomas 

Preston, lii, liii, Ixxxvi, 342. 
Camden's Proverbs, 108, 194, et passim. 
Campaspe, by Lyly, 263-333. 
Cante-fable, reminiscences of the, 356, 

375- 

Carde of Fancie, The, by Greene, the 
Dedication to, 403. 

Carle off Carlile, the poem, 127. 

Carmina Bur ana, referred to, 1 91. 

Carpenter, Professor F. I., his edition of 
Wager's Marie Magdalene (Univer- 
sity of Chicago Pness) , xciv. 

Castell of Perseverance, The, play of, 
xlvii, xlviii, 1, li, Iviii. 

Caxton, William, his translation of the 
Legenda Aurea, xxxi, xliv; his Prol. 
Eneydos, 115. 

Chaderton, William, his play and Gam- 
mer Gurton, 198. 

Challenge for Beauty, A, by T. Heywood, 
521. 

Chalmers, Alexander, his English Poets, 
191. 

Chapman, George, Ixxxviii; and Lyly, 



666 



Index 



275; and Porter, 517, 524, 533; his 
Numerous Dayes Mirth, 527; and 
Shakespeare, 658. 

Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden 
Time and the song of " Three merrie 
men," 352. 

Character, portrayal of in miracles, xxxi, 
xxxiii; in marvels, etc., xxxix, xli; in 
morals, lii-liv, Ixii-lxiii ; in other 
plays, Ixix, Ixxxvii, xcii; and see under 
Authors and Comedies. 

Chaucer, xix; the episode after his style, 
Ixv, Ixvi; and Heywood, 10-13; re- 
ferred to, 127, 398, 426; and see 
notes to R. D. ; on " hunting the 
letter," 374. 

Chester Cycle, The, of miracle plays, xxiii, 
xxiv, xxix. 

Chettle, Henry, his relations with Greene : 
his Kind Hart's Dreame, 419; his 
Robert Greene to Pierce Pennilesse, 
422; and the * Groatsworth Group,' 
423, 424; his relations with Porter, 
515-517, 522, 524; his Troilus and 
Cressida, 657. 

Child, Professor, on Robin Hood plays, 
xl; on St. George plays, xliii, 176. 

Childe Maurice, reference to, 359. 

Childe Rowland., a possible reference to, 
in O. W. T, 345, 354, 356. 

Children as players, 14, 98, 266, 267, 
270, 275, 276. 

Christ led up to Calvary, the York mir- 
acle of, xxvii. 

Chronicle play. The English, Ixxvi, Lyly 
and, 270. 

Cicero, Lyly's indebtedness to, 267. 

Cinthio, Giraldi, Shakespeare's indebted- 
ness to, 645. 

Clergy, the, and miracle plays, xiii, xviii- 

XX. 

Clown, the, xlvii, xlviii, U, lii, liv, 388, 
430, 644-646, 649, 651, 655. 

Coliphizatio, one of the Wakefield plays, 
see Buffeting. 



Collier, J. Payne, references to his His- 
tory of Dramatic Poetry and Annals 
of the English Stage, Illustrations of 
Old English Literature, Henslowe's 
Diary, Memoirs of Alleyn, etc., xiv, 
XX, xl, xlii, xlix, Ivi, Iviii, Ixxiv, Ixxvii, 
Ixxix, Ixxxvii, Ixxxviii, Ixxxix, 97, 346, 
409,417, 5i5,5i7» 518, 523,^/ /aj«w/ 
his Old Ballads, 167. 

Colman, George, the elder, his Jealous 
Wife, 530. 

Colwell, Thomas, publisher of Gammer 
Gurton, ig'j, 199, 201, and of the 
Disobedient Child. 

Comedy in England, Beginnings of, by 
C. M. Gayley, xiii-xcii, liturgical frag- 
ments, early saints' plays and paro- 
dies, xiii; comedy of ridicule, XX ; the 
miracle cycles in their relation to 
comedy, xxi; dramatic value of the 
English miracle plays, xxxi; the con- 
tribution of later " marvels " and early 
secular plays, xxxvii-xxxviii; the 
Devil and the Vice, xlvi; the indebt- 
edness of comedy to the Vice, liii-liv; 
the relation between miracle, moral, 
and interlude, liv; the older morals 
in their relation to comedy, Ivii ; 
the dramatic contribution of the 
older morals, Ixii; period of transi- 
tion, farce and romantic interlude, 
Ixiv; period of transition, school of 
interlude and controversial moral, 
' Christian Terence ' and comedia 
sacra, Ixix; polytypic, or fusion, plays, 
Ixxvii; survivals of the moral inter- 
lude, Ixxxv; the movement toward 
romantic comedy, Ixxxvii; conclu- 
sion regarding the requisites of com- 
edy, xci; comedy compared with 
tragedy, xxxi, xxxvii-xxxviii, Ixi-lxiv, 
639; elements, kinds, and relation to 
society, xci, 635, 648; pastoral, 4, 
268; in miniature, 10; emancipation 
from miracle and moral, 15; Comme- 



Index 



667 



dia delV arte, Ixviii; see also under 
Allegory, Romantic, Manners, Hu- 
mours, Latin, Woman, Prose, Plot, 
Character, 

Comedy of Errors, 7'he, by Shakespeare, 
648, 650. 

Common Conditions, the play of, Ixxxiii, 
Ixxxviii, 336, 341, 342. 

Comodey of Umers, The, 526, 528, 533, 

Complaynt of Scotland, The, folk-tale in, 

345- 

Comus, The, of Milton, and Old Wives' 
Tale, 348, 364, 378. 

Conflict of Conscience, The, by Nathaniel 
Woodes, xlix, li, Ixxxvi, 426. 

Congreve, William, the character of 
' Prue ' in his Love for Love, 536. 

Conny- Catching, Greene's pamphlets on, 
398, 418 ; 'The Defence of, 408. 

Conscious Lovers, The, by Steele, * Lu- 
cinda ' in, 429. 

Conspiracy, The, York and Wakefield, 
plays of, XXV, xxvi, xlvi. 

Contes, the French, xvii, Ixv. 

Conversion of St. Paul, The, Digby play 
fOi, XXX, 1, Ixxxi. 

Cooper, W. D., his Extracts from the Cor- 
pus Christi Register, 89 ; his edition 
of Roister Doister, 104, 191, 194, and 
frequently in notes to R. D. 

Copland, publisher of Robin Hood plays, 
xl. 

Cornish Plays, The, xxiii, xxiv, xlvii. 

Corpus Christi, Feast of, xiv, xx. 

Cotgrave's Dictionary, 108, 194, et pas- 
sim. 

Council of the Jews, The, Coventry play 
of, 1. 

Council of Treves, The, xi. 

Courthope, Mr. W. J., his History of Eng- 
lish Poetry, xxxvii, Ixiii, Ixiv. 

Courtney, Bishop, vs. Feast of Fools, xxi. 

Coventry Gild Plays, The, xxiii ; and see 
under N-town. 

Coventry, The Old Leet Book of, xlvi. 



Coventry Plays, The, so-called, of Corpus 

Christi, xxiii, xxiv, xxix, xlviii, hiii, 

Ixxvii. 
Crafts, in the religious drama, xviii, xxxi, 

etc. 
Cranmer, Archbishop, on prayers for the 

dead, 193. 
Creede, Thomas, publisher of some of 

Greene's plays, 403-405, 415, 420. 
Creizenach, Professor Wilhelm, his Ge- 

schichte d. neueren Dramas, bae. I, 

II, mentioned, xvi, xviii, xix, xxi, 

xxx-vi, xlv, Ixx, Ixxiv. 
Crocus, his play oi Joseph, Ixx. 
Croxton Play, The, of the Sacrament, 

xxxix. 
Crucifixion, The, play of, xxii, xxvii. 
Cushman, Professor L. W., his Devil and 

Vice in English Dram. Lit., xlvii- 

xlix, liii. 
Cycles, the English miracle, xviii, xxi, 

xxxi, etc. 
Cymbeline, Shakespeare's, 645, 659, 660; 

the song, "Hark, hark, the Lark" 

suggested by one of Lyly's, 322. 

Damon and Pithias, by Richard Ed- 
wardes, Ixxviii, Ixxxiv, Ixxxvii, xcii, 
268, 269. 

Daniel, The History of, by Hilarius, xv. 

Daryus, King, xlix, Ixxvi, Ixxxvi. 

David and Bethsabe ( 1 he Love of King 
David, etc.), by Peele, 335, 336, 341. 

Davidson, Professor Charles, his English 
Mystery Plays, xxxviii. 

Day, John, his intimacy with Porter, 524. 

Debats, Dramatic, Ixv. 

Dekker, Thomas, Ixxiii ; his Satiro-Mas- 
tix, 191; and Lyly, 274; "Three 
merrie men " in Westward Hoe, 
352; h\?, Knight's Conjuring a.nd the 
• Groatsworth ' group of poets, 423 ; 
relations with Porter and Drayton, 
522 ; with Chettle, 523 ; and the 
'war of the theatres,' 657, 658. 



668 



Index 



Descensus Astrcscs, by Peele, 416. 
Despencers, The, by Porter and Chettle, 

523. 

* Devil,' The, and the ' Vice,' xlvi-liv, 
Ivi, Ixxiii, 499. 

Devil is an Ass, The, by Ben Jonson, 
xlviii, li, liii. 

Devil is in It, The, {If this be not a Good 
Play, etc.), by Dekker, xlviii. 

Dido, The, by the Master of St. Paul's, 
Ixxi. 

Digby Plays, The, edited by Dr. Furni- 
vall, XV ; references to, xxix, xxx, xxxi, 
xlvii, xlviii, 1, Iv. 

Diogenes Laertius, his Lives of the Phi- 
losophers, 269, 280; and elsewhere in 
notes to Campaspe. 

Disguisings, xl. 

Disobedient Child, The, by Thomas Inge- 
land, xlvii, li, liii, Iv, Ixxxii, Ixxv. 

Disputations, Ixv. 

Doctor Faustus, by Marlowe, the relation 
of Friar Bacon to it, 389, 413, 414. 

Dodsley, Robert, his collection of Old 
English Plays, reedited by W. Carew 
Hazlitt, XX, 194, 430, et passim. 

Don Quixote, an English : — ' Ralph ' of 
the Burning Pestle ; foreshadowed by 
' Huanebango,' 343. 

Douce, Francis, his Illustrations of Shake- 
speare, xxi, xlix, lii, 128; on Porter, 

5i8» 534- 
Dowden, Professor, A Monograph on 

William Shakespeare as a Comic 

Dramatist, 635-661. 
Downton [Dowton, Dunton, or Dutton], 

Thomas, an actor in the Admiral's 

Company in Porter's time, 515, 516, 

517. 524- 
Drayton, Michael, relations with Porter, 

Dekker, etc., 522. 
Drea?n of Pilate's Wife, the York play 

of The, XXV. 
Dublin, the History of the City of by 

Whitelaw and Walsh, xxxviii. 



Du Meril, E., Pees. Pop. lat. antiq. 191. 

Dunbar, William, his Will of Maister 
Andrezv Kennedy, 192. 

Durandus, Rationale., 192. 

Dyce, Alexander, his edition of Skelton, 
259; of Peele, 346, 348, and see notes 
to Gummere's edition of O. W. T, 
et passim ; of Greene, 402, 415, 420, 
430, and notes to Friar Bacon; of 
Porter's 2 A. W. A., 515, 517, 518, 
535, 544, and frequently in notes to 
the present edition. 

Ebbsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, and " O 

man in desperation," 351. 
Ebert, Professor Adolf, his article on 

Die englischen Mysterien in the Jahr- 

buch filr rofnajiische tind englische 

Liter atur,ycf.yX\; on the "ambiguous 

letter," 150. 
Edward I, by Peele, 335, 337, 383. 
Edward III, anonymous, and Greene's 

Orlatido and Never Too Late, 410. 
Edward VI, Injunctions under, on prayers 

for the dead, 193; Statute of 1547 on 

vagrancy, 193. 
Edwardes, Richard, and Godly Queen 

Hester, Ixxxiii, his Damon and Pithias, 

Ixxxiv; and Lyly, 271. 
Elizabeth, and Edwardes' Palamon and 

Arcite, Ixxxiv; prayers for the dead, 

under, and her relation to the later 

edition of Roister Doister, 193; and 

Lyly, 266, 269; and Greene, 408, 409, 

416,502. 
Ellis, Mr. Havelock,his edition of Porter's 

2 A. W. A., 515, 519, 531, 535, 554, 

and frequently in the notes to the 

present edition. 
Ellis, his Original Letters of Eminetit 

Literary Men, 89, 91. 
Elze, Dr. Karl, on a verse in Friar Bacon, 

510. 
Encomium Lauri, by Gabriel Harvey, a 

line in, ridiculed by Peele, 373, 



Indi 



ex 



669 



Endimion, by Lyly (edited by Professor 
Baker), 265, 267, 269, 272, 291. 

Enfants de Maintenant, Les, a French 
inoralite, Ixxxii. 

Enfants sans souci, their sotties, Levi. 

Englands Mourninge Gowne and Mourn- 
ing Garment, 412. 

England^ s Parnassus, by AUott, 420. 

Eton, Udall at, 90. 

Euphues and Euphuism, 265, 267, 297, 
ZZly 646. 

Eusebius, xxxviii. 

Everyman, the Moralle Play of, 1, liii, 
Iv, Ivi, Iviii. 

Every Man in his Humour, by Ben 
Jonson, its relation to Porter's work, 

524, 530. 533- 
Ezekias, by Udall, 93. 

Fabliaux, xvii, Ixv. 

Faire Em and Greene's Friar Bacon, 
411,412,418,427. 

Fairholt, F. W., his edition of Lyly's 
dramatic, works, 276 ; see also notes 
to Alexander and Campaspe. 

Farce, and farce interlude, xviii, xxxvii, 
Ixiv, Ixvii ; French, Ixv, 15. 

Farewell to Follie, one of Greene's pam- 
phlets, 398,411,412. 

Farewell to the Famous and Fortunate 
Generals, poem by Peele, 403. 

Ferbrand, William, publisher of Porter's 
2 A. W. A., 534. 

Festival Plays, etc., xxxvii-xlvi. 

Fflagellacio, The, Wakefield miracle of, 
xxvi-xxviii. 

Fidei Defensor, use of the title, 184. 

Fitzstephen, William, on saints' plays, 
xiv, XV. 

Fleay, Mr. F. G., his Chronicle History 
of the English Stage, Biographical 
Chronicle of the English Drama, and 
Life of Shakespeare, Ixxxii, Ixxxiii, 
Ixxxvi, Ixxxviii, Ixxxix, xci, 336, 339, 
347» 360, Z^Z^ 399, 403, 404, 406, 



410, 412, 415, 418, 421, 424, 426, 
521, 523, 527, 528, and other ref- 
erences. 

Fletcher, John, his Bloody Brother, 352 ; 
and Shakespeare, 660. 

Fleury Plays, the, of St. Nicholas, xvi. 

Floegel, Geschichte d. grotesk-komischen, 
neuarbeitet von Ebeling, xlv. 

Fliigel, Professor Ewald, Critical Essay 
on Udall, 89-104 ; edition of Roister 
Doister, 105-189 ; appendix to R.D., 
189-194 ; also Ixxviii ; his Lesebuch, 
69, 91, 194. 

Folk-lore, the background of, in O. JF. 
T., 345-346. 

Folk Lore Journal, specimens from, xliii. 

Fool, literature of the, lii ; relation to the 
Vice, xlvii-liv, Ixxxii ; in Roister Dois- 
ter, 100, loi ; in Greene, 393, 430 ; 
in Shakespeare, 644-646, etc. 

Fools, The Feast of, xx, Ixvi. 

Four Elements, The, interlude by John 
Rastell, Ixi, Ixxi-lxxiv; referred to, 
109. 

Four Kynges, 523. 

Foure P.P., the play called The, by John 
Heywood, 9, 10. 

Foster^s Alumni Oxoftienses, 518. 

Frazer, J. G., The Golden Bough, on 
the "death-index," cf. O. IV. T., 

345-" 
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay ( The 

Famous Historic of Frier Bacon) by 

R. Greene, edition of, with essay 

and notes, by C. M. Gayley, 433-503 ; 

appendix on the versification of, 503 ; 

mention of, xlviii, li, liv, 338, 389, 

410, 413, 426. 
" Friar Rush," 231. 
Fulk Fitz Warine, The Story of, 127. 
Fuller's Worthies, cited, 65. 
Furnivall, Dr., his edition of the Digby 

Plays, xxiii, xxx, xlvii, Iv ; his Polit. 

Pel. and Love Songs, 191. 
Furnivall Miscellany, The, xix. 



670 



Index 



Gallathea, by John Lyly, 268. 

Gammer Gurton's NedUy by William 
Stevenson, edition of, with essay on 
the authorship, date and qualities of 
the play, by Mr. Henry Bradley, 195- 
259 ; other mention of, Ixxiii, Ixxviii, 
Ixx-lxxii, xcii, 99, 121, 338, 342, 533. 

Gayley, Professor C. M., Preface to this 
volume, iii ; An Historical View of 
the Beginnings of English Cofnedy, 
xiii-xcii ; regarding Roister Doister, 
97, 104 ; regarding Gammer Gurton, 
198 ; on the title of Old Wives' Tale, 
347 ; Critical Essay on Greene's 
Life and the Order of his Works, 
397-431 ; edition of Erier Bacon, 
433-502 ; appendix on Greene's ver- 
sification, 503-511. Critical Essay 
on Henry Porter's Life and his Place 
in English Drama, 513-536; edi- 
tion of Two Angry Womeji, 537-633. 

Gascoigne, George, his Supposes, Ixxviii, 
Ixxxiv, 517; his Glasse of Govern- 
ment, Ixxiv. 

Gentylnes and Nobylyte, the dialogue 
of, 8. 

Geoffrey, Abbot of St. Alban's, and the 
Ludus de S. Katharitia, xiv, xvi. 

George-a- Greene, the Pinner of Wake- 
field, 338, 392, 401, 533 ; date and 
authorship, 418-420. 

Germanic Philology, four nal of, 336. 

Giant and the King's Daughter, the tale 
of the, in O. W. T. 354. 

Gillette's Because She Loved Him So, 
mentioned, 529. 

Giraldus Cambrensis, referred to, 426. 

Glasse of Government, The, by Gas- 
coigne, Ixxiv. 

Gnapheus (W. FuUonius), his Acolastus, 
Ixx, Ixxi, Ixxxi. 

Godly Queene Hester, a moral play, xxxiv, 
Ixxvi, Ixxviii, Ixxxiii. 

Godwin's Lives of the Necromancers, 281. 

Golden Legend, The, of the Lives of the 



Saints, translated by Caxton, a source 
for plays, xv, xxxi, xxxvii, xliv. 

Gosche's Jahrbuch, names of the Devil, 
190. 

Gosson, his Ephemerides of Phialo, 249; 
on dramatic attractions, 341. 

Gower, John, and ' Titivillus,' 190, and 
physique, 398. 

Graf, Herman, Der Miles Gloriosus im 
englischen Drama, 190. 

Greban, A., his play of the Passiotz, 
xxxvi. 

Greene, Robert, Monograph on his place 
in English Comedy, by Professor 
Wood berry, 387-394 ; Critical Essay 
on his life and the order of his plays, 
with edition of his Erier Bacon, and 
appendix on his versification, by Pro- 
fessor Gayley, 395-5" 5 ^i^^, 397; 
authorities on, 397 ; misapprehen- 
sions concerning his career, 398 ; de- 
velopment as dramatist and order of 
plays, 402 ; plays conjecturally as- 
signed to him, 418 ; ' Young juvenall ' 
and the comedie ' lastly writ,' 422 ; 
Erier Bacon, composition, 411, stage 
history and materials, 425, dramatic 
construction, 427, previous editions 
and the present text, 430. Other men- 
tion, Ixxxii, Ixxxv, Ixxxvii, xc ; and 
Lyly, 266, and Peele, 338-339, and 
Porter, 517, and Shakespeare, 645, 
647 ; his Menaphon, 337 ; dates of 
his Perimedes, Pandosto, Menaphon, 
Ciceronis Amor, Philomela, 398 ; 
Arbasto, Alorando, Planetomachia, 
printed, 400. 

Greene'' s Vision, 400. 

Gregory IX, against clerical participation 
in miracle plays, xix. 

Grim, the Collier of Croydon, xlviii. 

Grimm, J., Mythologie, cited, 373. 

Grindal, Archbishop, 192, 400. 

Gringoire, his VHom7ne Obstine, xlix. 

Griselda, play of, mentioned, Ixxi. 



Index 



671 



* Groatsworth ' group of poets, the, 422- 

423. 

Gt'oatsworih of Wit^ A, by Greene, 
397. 398, 400, 402. 

Grosart, Dr. A. B., his edition of Nashe's 
works, 337, 351 ; of Harvey's, 359; 
of Greene's works, 387, 397, 403, 410, 
415, 416, 430 ; article in Englische 
Studien, 418 ; his edition of Selimus, 
420; on the authorship of A Knack, 
424. 

Guevara, Antonia de, his Dial of Princes, 
used by Lyly, 267, 337. 

Gummere, Professor F. B., edition of 
Peele's Old Wives' Tale with Critical 
Essay on the author and the play, 
notes and appendix, 333-384. 

Guy of Warwick, cited, 115. 

Hackett, Thomas, licensed to print 

Roister Doister, 97. 
Hales, Professor J. W., on the date of 

Roister Doister, Englische Studien, 

95- 
Halle, Adam de la, his opera of Robin et 

Marion, xli. 
Halliwell (and Wright), collection of 

Keliquicp. Antiquce, 191. 
Halliuell-Phillipps, Mr. J, O., xli-xHii, 

xlv, hii, 171, 194, 528. 
Hamlet, the early play attributed to 

Thomas Kyd, 427 ; Shakespeare's, 

534, 658. 
Harrison's Description of England, 1 1 7, 

167. 
Hartmann's Iivein, a similarity in, to O. 

W. 7\, 373. 
Harvester's song, the, in O. W. T., 

proposed restoration of, 383. 
Plarvey, Gabriel, and Lyly, 266, 348 ; and 

Peele, 337, 340, 343 ; and Nashe, in 

the Trimming of Thomas Nashe, 

359 ; and * Huanebango,' 343, 345, 

358-359, 373, 383 ; and Greene, 398, 

402, 423. 



Haslewood, Joseph, his Ancient Critical 
Essays upon English Poets and 
Poesy, 337. 

Hathaway, R., and Porter, 517. 

Haughton, W., and Porter, 524. 

Hawkins, Thomas, his Origin of the 
English Drama, Ixxvi, 24. 

Hazlitt, W. C., his edition of Dodsley's 
Old Plays, 104, 194, 204, 535, et 
passim. 

Heber, Richard {Bibliotheca Heberiana 
in British Museum), on Porter, 517. 

Jlenno, a play by Reuchlin, Ixix. 

Henry IV., Parts I and II, Shake- 
speare's, Ixxxix, 534, 646. 

Henry V., Shakespeare's, 653. 

Henry VI., Parts I and 11, 418, 427. 

Henry VIII., Shakespeare's, 660. 

Henry VIII., the usury statutes under, 
95-97; his song of "Pastime," 132. 

Henslowe, Philip, his Diary, and 
Greene, 405, 408, 411, 415, 418; 
and Porter, 515, 517, 518, 520, 522, 
526-528. 

Herford, Professor C. H., his literary 
Relations of England and Germany, 
bcx, Ixxiv, Ixxvi, Ixxxii, Ixxxv, 90. 

Herod, the Wakefield play of, xxvii. 

Heywood, John, Critical Essay on his life 
and place in English comedy, with 
editions of his Play of the Wether, 
and his Johan, by Mr. A. W. Pollard, 
19-85 ; life, 3 ; Heywood and Sir 
Thomas More, 5 ; dramatic de- 
velopment and literary estimate, 6- 
12; his Foure PP., Wether, Wit 
and Folly, love, 6-1 1 ; Pardoner and 
Johan, 6, assigned to him, 11 ; 
Wether, early editions and the 
present text, 16 ; his two achieve- 
ments, 16; Johan, previous editions 
and the present text, 61. Other 
mention of H., xvii, xlix, Ivi, lix, Ixi, 
Ixvl-xviii, Ixxviii, Ixxxii, 89, 95, 96 ; 
his Proverbes, no, 191, 194, 275. 



672 



Index 



Heywood, Thomas, and Henry Porter, 

517,521, 524,526. 
Hilarius, his plays, xiv-xvi. 
Hippe, Max, on the "Thankful Dead" 

theme, in Herrig's Archiv, 345. 
Historia Histrionica, Ixxxi. 
Hisirio-Mastix (attributed to Marston), 

xlviii. 
Hohlfeld, Professor, Die altenglischen 

Kollectivmisterien, in Anglia, Bd. 

XIX, XXV. 
Hoker's Piscator, Ixxi. 
Holinshed, R., Chronicles, on the dearth 

of corn in 1523, 40, 117. 
Holland's Translation of Pliny, 279 et 

seq. 
Hojnme Obstine, /', xlix. 
Homme Pecheur, /', xlix, Ixxii. 
Hone, William, his Ancient Mysteries, 

xxi, xxxviii. 
Horestes, by John Pikerynge, xlix, Hi, 

Ixxxvii, 204. 
Host, the miracle of the, xxxix. 
Hot Anger Soon Cold, by Porter (with 

Chettle and Ben Jonson), 522, 523. 
Hox Tuesday play, the, mentioned, 

xxxvii, xli. 
Hrosvitha, mentioned, xvii. 
' Huanebango ' in O. W. T., and Gabriel 

Harvey, 343, 345, 359, 383. 
Humanists, their drama, etc., Ixxiii, Ixxvi, 

Ixxxii, 98. 
Humours, the comedy of, anticipations 

of. Hi, liv, Ixiii, Ixxxvi, 532, et passif?i. 
Hunt, Joseph, published Porter's 2 A. 

W. A., 534. 
Hunter, Joseph, his Chorus Vatum 

Anglicanorum (in the British Mu- 
seum), 518. 
Hunting of Cupid, The, by Peele, 415. 
Hyckescorner, a moral interlude, Ix, Ixxi, 
Ixxiv ; referred to, 133. 

Ideal, the, in comedy, xv, xxi, xxx, xxxi, 
xxxviii, Iviii, Ixi, Ixii, Ixix, Ixxviii, Ixxxii, 



Ixxxv, Ixxxvii, xcii ; in Udall's, 99 ; in 
Greene's, 390, 392, 394, 419, 428, 429 ; 
in Shakespeare's, 637-643, 647, 648, 
651, 654-661. 

Induction, the use of, in Old Wives' 
Tale, 343 ; in plays by Greene, 
Shakespeare, Nashe, Jonson, Beau- 
mont and Fletcher ; Schwab's thesis 
on, 343-344. 

Ingeland, Thomas, his interlude of 77ie 
Disobedient Child, Ixxv. 

Innocent III, against acting, xix. 

Interludes : Inteyhidium de Clerico el 
Puella, xvii, xxxvii, Ixvi ; interludes 
in churches, xx ; moral, xl ; relation 
of miracle, moral, and interlude, Iv ; 
various kinds of interlude, Ivi ; causes 
of improvement in, Ivii ; farce and 
romantic interlude, Ixiv ; school and 
controversial, Ixxii ; Italian models, 
Ixxxviii. See also under fohji Hey- 
wood. 

Intrigue and passion, plot of, xcii. 

Iphigenia, a children's play, 268. 

Jacke Jugeler, play of, xlix, li, Ixxii, 

Ixxviii, Ixxix, 103, 107. 
Jack the Giant-Killer, the story of, in 

connection with Old Wives'' Tale, 345. 
Jack Wilton, by Nashe, 266. 
yacob and Esau, The Historic of, a play, 

Ixxiv, bcxvii, Ixxx, Ixxxii. 
Jacobs, J., English Fairy Tales, 345, 359, 

362. 
James IV, The Scottish Historic of, by 

Greene, Ixxxin, 389,392,404,415,418, 

420, 427. 
Jeffes, Anthony, and Humphrey, actors 

in the Admiral's company in Porter's 

time, 524. 
Jew, the, in early comedy, xc (^yew of 

Malta, etc.). 
yobe, A History of, attributed to Greene, 

418. 
yohan yohaji, Tyb, etc., A mery play 



Index 



673 



betwene, assigned to John Heywood, 
an edition with critical essay and 
notes, by Mr. A. W. Pollard, 1-19, 
59-87. Other mention, xvii, Ixix, 
Ixxxi, 533. 

Johan, Kyng, by Bishop Bale, xlix, Ixxii, 
Ixxv-lxxvii. 

John, King of England, The Trouble- 
some Raigne of, attributed to Greene, 
418. 

Jonson, Ben, liii, Ixxiii, Ixxv, Ixxxviii ; 
his New Inn referred to, 109 ; and 
Lyly, 274, 275 ; his use of the in- 
duction, 343 ; and Henry Porter, 
515, 522, 533 ; on the purpose of 
comedy, 637, 645 ; in Troilus and 
Cressida, 638, 657, 658. 

Joseph and Mary Plays, the, of York, 
Wakefield, and Coventry, chivalrous 
and romantic quality of, xxix. 

Juby, Ed., the actor, and Greene, 401. 

Judiciu7n, the Wakefield play of The, 
xxvii, xxix, xlvi, xlviii, Ixxxi. 

Judith, by Macropedius, Ixx. 

Jusserand, M. J. J., on Heywood's inter- 
ludes, Ixvi. 

Killing of the Children of Israel, 

the Digby play of the, xxiii, xxx. 
Kind Harfs Dreame, by Chettle, 419, 

422. 
Kirchmayer (Naogeorgos), his Pavima- 

chius, Ixv, Ixx. 
Kirkman, Francis, his catalogue of plays; 

Peele, 336 ; Greene, 419 ; Porter, 518. 
Kittredge, Professor G. L., on Sir Clyo- 

mon, 336 ; on a phrase in Alexander 

and Campaspe, 303. 
Klein, Professor J. L., his Geschichte d. 

englischen Dramas, xviii, xxi, xxxvi, 

Hi, Ixviii, Ixx. 
Knack to Know a Knave, A, 'the 

comedie last writ' (?), compared 

with Friar Bacon, and with the 

Looking- Glasse, 418, 424, 425 and 

2X 



note, 427, 429, 457, 499 ; mentioned, 

xlviii, xc. 
Knight of the Burning Pestle, The, by 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 342, 343. 
Koch, Englische Studien, note in, 190. 
Kyd, Thomas, Ixxxviii; and Lyly, 273; 

and Greene, 410. 

Lacuna, the metrical use of in dramatic 
blank verse, 510. 

Lammerhirt, G. P., Untersuchungen, 
u. s. w., concerning Peele, 341, 348. 

Langbaine, G., his Account of the English 
Dramatic k Poets, 518. 

Langland, xix ; his Piers Plowman, xl, 
108, 109, 191, etc. 

Latimer, Bishop, his Sermons (on exorcis- 
ing the devil), 192, 193. 

Latin, — tropes, xiii ; saints' plays, xiv- 
xvi ; cultivation of Plautus and Ter- 
ence in the Middle Ages and their 
impress on elegiac comedy, xvii ; 
history of the later comedy, Ixv, 
Ixvii. 

Leach, A. F., Some English Plays and 
Players (in the Furnivall Miscel- 
lany), xix. 

Lear, King, Shakespeare's, 418, 639, 
660. 

Lee, Mr. Sidney, his Life of Shakespeare, 
406, 408. 

Leicester, the Earl of, his relation to 
Endimion, 267 ; to Alexander and 
Campaspe, 269 ; his players, 399. 

Legenda Aurea, by Jacobus Voragine, 
xliv ; see also under Caxton. 

Legends, xviii, Ixxxviii. 

Leland, John, his relations with Udall, 
89-92 ; his Collectanea, 89, etc. 

Leo X, and Heywood, 11. 

Life-Index, the, instance of in O. W. T., 

365- 
Like 7uil to Like, quod the Devel to the 
Colier, by Ulpian Fulwel, xlvii, xlviii, 
li, lii, Ixxxiv, Ixxxvi, 108, no, 342, 499. 



674 



Index 



Lime's Light, 266. 

Liturgical drama, the, xiii, xx. 

Locher's translation of the A^arrenschiff, 
Ix. 

Lock, Henry, his Ecclesiastes, 266. 

Lodge, Thomas, and Lyly, 266 ; and 
Peele, 337 ; and Greene ; the Look- 
ing-Glasse, and their respective con- 
tributions to it, 405-407 ; Lodge's 
Civil I'Vars, 405, 407, 409, 415, 418, 
420-422; and Porter, 517; and 
Shakespeare, 645. 

Longer thou Livest, etc., by W. Wager, 
Ixxxvi. 

Look About You, published by Ferbrand, 

534- 

Looking- Glasse for London and England, 
A, by Greene and Lodge, 338, 352, 
404 ; the parts written by Lodge, 
405 ; characteristics of his verse, 407, 
414, 415, 422, 425. 

Lorenz, A. O. F., on the Miles Gloriosus 
and his Parasite, 190. 

Loseley Mss., The, edited by A. J. Kempe,- 

90, 93> 94. 
Love, 1 he Play of, by John Heywood, 

xlix, liii, Ixvii, Ixix, 8-12. 
Love's Labour'' s Lost, Shakespeare's, xli, 

275, 427, 644, 648, 649, 650, 654. 
Lovers Metamorphosis, by Lyly, 266, 

268. 
Love. Prevented, by Porter, 521, 527. 
Lowen, his Prinz Pickelhering, xlv. 
Ludi Sanctiores, mcntiuned by Fitz- 

stephen, xv. 
/ tidi Beat(E < hristincE, xxxviii. 
I udus Coventrice ^(seu Ludus Cot poris 

thristi), the N-Tuwn plavs, com- 
monly assigned to Coventry, which 

see. 
Lulus de S. Katharina, by Geoffrey, 

xiv, xvi. 
Ludus ludentem Luderum ludens, Ixxi. 
Ludus super fconia S. Nicolai, by Hila- 

rius, xiv, xvi. 



Lusty Juventus, by R. Wever, xlvii, li, 
Ixxii, Ixxvi. 

Lydgate, John, Hi. 

Lyly, John, Critical Essay on his life and 
place in English comedy, by Professor 
Baker, 263-276 ; life of Lyly, 265 ; 
place of Euphiies in English litera- 
ture, 266 ; Lyly's plays, subdivision 
of them, 267 ; date and sources of 
Alexander and Campaspe, 268 ; 
literary estimate of A. and C, 269 ; 
Lyly's development as a dramatist, 
272 ; place in English Comedy, 273 ; 
previous editions of A. and C, and 
the present text, 275 ; Professor 
Baker's edition of A. and C, 277- 
333' Other mention, Ixxxvii, xc, 
348, 517, 646. 

Lyndsay, Sir David, his Thrie Estatis, 
Ixxv. 

Lyric, the, in the plays of Lyly, 274 ; of 
Greene, 391. 

Macbeth, Shakespeare's, 658. 
Machiavelli, N.,his Discourses^ 200. 
Macropedius, his Asotus and other plays, 

Ixx ; his Rebelles, Ixxiv. 
Mactacio Abel, the Wakefield play of, 

xxviii. 
Magdalene, The Life of the, in Caxton's 

Golden 1 egend, xxx. 
Magnyfycence, a moral play by Skelton, 

Iviii, 168. 
Maid^s Metamorphosis, The, not by Lyly, 

266. 
Malone, Edmund, li, 430, 516, 518, 

534- 

Mamillia, by Greene, 397. 

Mankynd, a moral plav, xlvii, 1, li, Ivi, 
Iviii, lix, Ix. Ixxi, Ixxiv, Ixxvi, Ixxvii. 

Manl', Professor J M., his S'-ecime^is of 
the Pre-Shakespearean Drama, xiii, 
xliii, 104, 204, 239, 276, 283 ; and in 
notes to Roister, Gammer Gurton, 
and Campaspe. 



Index 



675 



Manners, of contemporary life as an ele- 
ment in drama, xvi, xvii, xx, xxi, 
xxviii, xxix, xxxv, xxxvi, xxxix, xli, 
xlvi, xlix-liv, Iviii-lxii, Ixiii, Ixv, Ixvii- 
Ixix, Ixxii, Ixxviii et seq., xci ; in Hey- 
wood, 4, II; in Udall, 99, 103 ; in 
Stevenson, 202-204; ii^ Lyly, 271, 
275; in Peele, 34i-344» 347; in 
Greene, 391-394, 428-430; in Por- 
ter, 528, 530-533 ; in Shakespeare, 
639, 641-644, 64S-661, />assim. 

Manuale . . . ad tisum insignis Ecclesice 
Eboracensis, 192. 

Marie Magdalene^ The Life and Repent- 
aunce of, by Lewis Wager, xxxi, Ixxxvi. 
Edited by Professor F. I. Carpenter 
(Univ. Chicago Press). 

Marlovi^e, Christopher, Iviii, xc ; and 
Peele, ^Zly 339; and Greene, 388, 
389, 403-405,414,423; and Porter, 
523 ; and Shakespeare, 652. 

Marprelate Controversy, the, Lyly's part 
in, 265. 

AIa7'riage of Witte and Science, The, see 
under IVii Plays. 

Marston, John, and Henry Porter, 520. 

Martin Marprelate, the Epistle diwd Epit- 
ome assign G. G. N'. to Bridges, 200. 

Marline Marsixtus, by R. W., and 
Greene, 401, 404. 

Martial's Month's Afinde (Nashe ?), 
cited, 353. 

Marvels, or miracles of the saints, xiv, 
XV, xvi, xviii, xx, xxx, xxxvii-xlvi, Ixii, 
Ixix, Ixxxvi. 

Mary Magdalene, the Digby play of, 
an 1 the importance of the character 
in romantic comedy, xxx, xxxi, xxxvii, 
xlviii, 1, li, Iviii. 

Mary, the Virgin, her importance as a 
romantic character, xxix, xxx. 

'^z.'^^W, Monumenta Ritualia, 144, 192. 

Masques, xl, Ixxxix ; by Udall, 93, 94 ; 
by Lyly, 267, 272 ; by Shakespeare, 
650, 651, 660, 661. 



Measure for Measure, Shakespeare's, 

657- 
Medwall, H., his Goodly Interlude of 

Nature, Ix. 
Alenaphon, by Greene ; his letter pre- 
fixed ; and Nashe's Preface, 337, 

389,411,412,423,424. 
Merchant of Venice, The, Shakespeare's, 

xc, 305, 534, 583, 651, 652. 
Meredith, Mr. George, on vi'oman in 

comedy, Ixi ; on the comic spirit, 637. 
Meres, Francis, his Palladis Tatnia, on 

Peele, 337 ; on Greene and Nashe, 

422; on Porter, 517, 528. 
Merlin, similarities to the character of, 

in Old Wives' Tale, 345, 356. 
Merrie conceited Jests of George Peele, 

337. 

Merry Wives of Windsor, The, Shake- 
speare's, 533, 645, 652, 654. 

Meyer, E., Geschichte d. hamburgischen 
Schul-und-Unterrichtswesens im Mit- 
telalter, xxi. 

Middleton, Thomas, his Game of Chess, 
275 ; his Trick to Catch the Old One, 
cited, 359. 

Midsummer Nighfs Dream, A, Shake- 
speare's, 275, 389, 415,427, 533, 534. 
648, 651. 

' Miles Gloriosus,' the, of Plautus, in Eng- 
lish literature, Ixxiv, 98, 189, 190. 

Milton, John, his Comus compared vv'ith 
the Old Wives' Tale, 347. 

Miracle plays. Biblical and legendary, 
xiv-xvi, xviii-xx ; the cycles in their 
relation to English comedy, xxi-xxxi ; 
historical order of comic passages in 
the cycles, sequence of aesthetic val- 
ues, xxiv et seq.; dramatic value of, 
xxxi-xxxvii ; relation to the stage, and 
the theory of the English miracles, 
xxxii, xxxiv ; national note in, xxxvi ; 
how they fall short of artistic comedy, 
xxxvii ; nature of legendary, xxxviii ; 
relation to moral and interlude, Iv. 



6/6 



Index 



Mirth plays, Ixxi, Ixxii. 

Alisogonus, by Thomas Richardes (?), 
Ixxviii, Ixxxi-lxxxiii, 191. 

Missa Gulce, in Halliwell and Wright's 
ReliquicE AntiqucB, 191. 

Mock Requiem, the, in Roister Doister, 
sources, etc., 191-192. 

Monachopornoniachia, Ixxi. 

Mone, Y. J., Shauspiele des Mittelalters, 
190. 

Monox, Will, and Greene, 423. 

Montemayor, Jorge de, his pastoral of 
Diana Enamorada and Two Gentle- 
men of Verona, 650. 

Moral, the, or moral play, not properly 
called morality, Iv, note 2 ; collective, 
of the fourteenth century, xxxiv ; na- 
ture of the moral, xlix; thevicein,xlvi, 
xlviii-liv ; relation of moral, mira- 
cle, and interlude, liv-lvii ; the older 
morals in their relation to comedy, 
Ivii-lxii ; their dramatic contribution, 
Ixii-lxiv ; school interlude and con- 
troversial moral, Ixix-lxxvii ; French 
moralities, Ixxii ; fusion plays, Ixxvii, 
Ixxviii ; moral interlude, Ixxx ; sur- 
vival of rudimentary, decadent, func- 
tionless, Ixxxv, Ixxxvi ; variations of, 
and moral tragedies, Ixxxvi ; pleasant 
and stately, Ixxxviii ; other mention, 
4. 5. 99, 103, 267, 407. 

Morando, Greene's, 397. 

More, Sir Thomas, Ixi, Ixxvii ; and Hey- 
wood, 5, 89. 

Morley, Professor Henry, his English 
Writers, Hi. 

Morris-dance, xl. 

Mortificacio, The, York play of, xxv. 

Morton, Cardinal, 5. 

Mother Bombie, by Lyly, 266, 268, 272, 

273, 338. 
Mourning Garment, The, by Greene, 398, 

406, 412, 416. 
Movement, the, in comedy, compared 

with that of tragedy, Ixiii. 



Mucedortis, by Lodge (?), 420, 499. 
Much Ado about Nothing, Shakespeare's, 

646,654. 
Mummings, xl. 

Munday, Anthony, his Two Italian Gen- 
tlemen, Ixxxviii ; and Lyly, 266 ; and 

Porter, 518, 524. 
Mundus et Infans, Iviii. 
Mydas, by Lyly, 265, 267, 268, 272. 
Myroure of owe Ladye, definition of 

' Tytyvyllus,' 190. 
Mysteries, Dodsley's imported name for 

miracles, xxii ; Corpus of French, 

xxxiv. 
Myth, classical, as material for plays, 

Ixxxiv, Ixxxvii, Ixxxviii, Ixxxix, xcvi, 

268, 657, 658, 660. 

Naogeorgos (Kirchmayer), \i\s Pam??ia- 
chius, Ixx. 

Narcissus, a play, 268. 

Narrenschiff, Locher's translation, Ix. 

Nash's History of Worcestershire, 65. 

Nashe, Thomas, on Gascoigne, IxXxv ; 
his Jack Wilt07i, id^i ; his Four Let- 
ters Confuted, 351 ; on Peele in his 
letter prefixed to Greene's Alenaphon, 
337 ; on Kyd, 410 ; on Greene in 
Have with You to Saffron IVal- 
den, 337, 419 ; on the Harveys in 
Strange A^exves, 423 ; also, 373 ; that 
he w^as "young Juvenal," 422; his 
relations with Greene proved by ref- 
erence to Meres, Chettle, Dekker, his 
own Strange Neives, Anatomic of Ab- 
surditie, Astrological Prognostication, 
Summer'' s Last Will, 217, 422-424; 
his Christe's Teares, 424 ; his rela- 
tions with the ' Groatsworth ' group 
of poets, 403, 424 ; with Porter (?), 

515. 517. 
Nativity, plays of the, xxii, xxxiv. 
Nature, The Goodly Interlude of, by 

Medwall, xlviii, 1, Ivi, lix-lx, Ixxi, 

Ixxvi. 



Index 



^77 



Never too Late, by Greene, 397, 398, 410. 
New English Dictionary, The, by Dr. 

Murray, Mr. Bradley et al., frequent 

references in notes to plays here pre- 
sented. 
Newcastle Plays, the sensational in The, 

xxiii, xxix. 
Newe Custome, a controversial moral, 

Ixxxvi. 
Nice Wanton, the interlude of, Ixxii, 
' Ixxiv. 
Nicholas, his Proceediiigs and Ordinances 

of the Privy Council, 91. 
Nichols, John, The Progresses and 

Public Processions of Queen Eliza- 
beth, 93. 
Nicholson, Dr. Brinsley, on Old Wives' 

Tale, 360, 370. 
Nietzsche, F, his Geburt d. Tragodie, 

and Frohliche Wissenschaft, 338. 
Nigrojuansir, The, by Skelton, xlvii, xlix, 

li, Iviii, lix. 
Noah, the York Play of, xxv, Ixxxi ; the 

Wakefield play of, xxvii, xxviii. 
North, Sir Thomas, his translation of 

Plutarch's Lives, 285, 290, 291, 292 

et seq. 
Notes and Queries, xliii. 
Novelle, adaptation of them to drama, 

ix, Ivii. 
N-town^ The, or so-called Coventry or 

Hegge Plays, xxiii, xxiv, xxix, xxxiv, 
xxxvii, xlviii, 1, Iviii. 

Officium Lusorum, 191. 

Old Wives' Tale, The, by George Peele, 
edited v^7ith critical essay and notes 
by Professor Oummere, 333-382 ; also 
Appendix on Sources of Characters, 
and the Harvesters' Song, by the 
same, 382-384. Other mention, 409, 
427. 

Orlando Furioso, The, by Ariosto, 346 ; 
used by Peele in O. W. T., 383 ; by 
Greene, 409. 



Orlando Furioso, The Historie of, h) 

Greene, 342, 383, 389, 408-411, 414, 

4I5> 417* 418. 
Osborn, in Teufelslitteratur, names of 

the Devil, 190. 
Ovid, Lyly's indebtedness to, 272, 281, 

298, etc. 
* Owleglasse,' mentioned in Two Angry 

Women, 613. 

Palamon and Arcite, by Richard Ed- 

wardes, Ixxxiv. 
Palladis Tamia, 528, and see under 

Meres. 
Palsgrave, John, his edition of the Aco- 

lastits, Ixx, Ixxii, Ixxxii ; Lesclarcisse- 

inent de la I angue Francoyse, 109, 

194, and frequently in notes to Roister. 
Pammachius, by Naogeorgos, translated 

by Bale, Ixx, Ixxv. 
Pamphilus, the comedy of, xvii. 
' Pancaste,' the real name of ' Campaspe,' 

329. 
Parasite, the domestic, xvii, Ixxxii, in 

ancient and modern comedy, 100, loi. 
Pardoner, The, and the Frere, interlude 

assigned to Heywood, Ixvii, Ixix, Ixxxr, 

10, 15. 
Pardonfzeur, etc., Farce nouvelle d'un, 

15- 

Paris, Matthew of, his Lives of the Abbots 
of St. Albans, xiv. 

Parker, Archbishop, on Still, 201. 

Parker Society Publications, on exor- 
cism, 193. 

Parodies, religious, xiv-xx ; of church ser- 
vices, 191, 192. 

Parsones, Thomas, and Porter, 516. 

Passion, mystery play by A. Greban, xxxvi. 

Pastoral scenes and masques, 272, 391. 

Paternoster Play, The, xxxiv, 1. 

* Pathelin,' Ixvi. 

Patient Grissel, 19 1. 

Paul, St., The Conversion of, in the Digby 
collection, xxx, xxxvii. 



67a 



Index 



Peele, George, and Lyly, Ixxxvii, xc, 275 ; 
Critical Essay on, with edition of his 
Old Wives' Tale, by Professor Gum- 
mere, 333-384 ; Peele's life, 335 ; plays 
assigned to him, 335 ; his place in the 
development of English drama, 336 ; 
the O. W. T. an innovation, 341 ; the 
background of folk lore in O. W. T., 
345; literary estimate of, 346 ; sources, 
title, text of, 347, 382 ; the Harvesters' 
song in, 383 ; his Hunting of Cupid, 

423. 
Peile, Dr., and Gammer Gurtons N'edle, 

198. 
Pembroke, the Earl of, his players, and 

Porter, 520. 
Penner, E., his Metrische Untersuchungen 

zu Peele, 348. 
Percy, Dr., on Hyckescorner, Ix. 
Pericles, probably Shakespeare's, 191, 

659, 660. 
Fernet qui va au vin^ tresbonne et fort 

ioyeuse. Parse nouuelle de, Ixv, Ixvi, 12; 

15- 
Perymedes, by Greene, 403, 406, 409. 
Petit de Julleville, La Comedie en France 

au moyen age, xxi, Ixvi. 
Petrarch, his Philologia, Ixvii. 
Pettie, George, his Petite Pallace of 

Pettie His Pleasure, 267. 
Philip II, and Mydas, 268. 
Phillips, Edward, his Theatrum Poeta- 

rum on Faire Emm, 418. 
Philogenia, an Italian play, Ixix. 
Piccolomini, his Crisis, Ixvii. 
• Pickelhering,' xlv. 

Piers Plowman, xl, 108, 109, 191, etc. 
Pikerynge, John, his Interlude of Vice 

concerning Horestes, Ixxv, Ixxxiii, 

Ixxxvii. 
Pilkington, Exposition upon Aggeus, 

191. 
Pinner of Wakefield, The, see George-a- 

Greene. 
Planetomachia, by Greene, 397, 398. 



Plautus, xvi, Ixv, Ixvii, Ixviii, Ixxii, Ixxix, 
Ixxxii, Ixxxvi ; Udall and, 99; Lyly 
and, 268 ; Shakespeare and, 650 ; also 
frequent references in notes to Roister 
Doister. 

Play of Love, The, %^^ John Heywood. 

Play of the Sacrament, The, xxxix. 

Play of the Wether, ?,te John Heywood. 

Play within the play, the, in Peele, etc., 
343, in Greene, 426. 

Players, see under Acting. 

Pliny, Lyly's indebtedness to, 267, 269 ; 
his History of World, 279 ; also fre- 
quently in notes to Lampaspe. 

Plutarch on Education, and on Exile used 
by Lyly, 267 ; also his Life of Alex- 
ander, 269, 283 ; and elsewhere in the 
notes to Lyly's Alexander and Cam- 
paspe. 

Poliscene, an Italian play, Ixix. 

Politics, in Lyly's alltg^ries, 275. 

Pollard, Mr. A. W., his edition of the 
To7vneley Plays, xxiii, xxvi ; on the 
Towneley (Wakefield) master, xxviii ; 
his English Miracle Plays, xlix, li, 
Ixvi ; A Critical Essay 07t John Hey- 
wood, with editions of his Play of the 
Wether and Johan, 1-86. 

Polyhymnia, by Peele, 336. 

Polytypic plays, Ivii, Ixxii, Ixxvii-lxxxv. 

Popular festival plays, xxxix-xlvi. 

Porter, Henry, the dramatist, Ixxxviii ; 
Critical Essay on his life and dramatic 
work, with an edition of his Two 
Angry Women, by Professor Gayley, 
513-633 ; facts of Porter's life, 515 ; 
early notices, 517; conjectural identity, 
518 ; dramatic career, 520; his asso- 
ciates, 522-524; date of his extant 
play, 525 ; its dramatic qualities and 
construction, 528 ; portrayal of char- 
acter, 530 ; place in the history of 
comedy, 533 ; previous editions and 
the present text, 535. 

Porter, Henry, the musical composer, 518. 



Index 



679 



Porter, Walter, 518. 

Prayer, the, at the end of early plays, 
184; and see close of other come- 
dies in this volume. 

Preston, Thomas, his Cambises, King of 
Percia, Ixxxvi. 

Pride of Life, The, a moral, liii, Ivi, Iviii. 

♦ Priest of the Sun, The,' in Greene and 
Lodge's Looking- Glasse, 406. 

Processus Crucis, story about a, by Bebel, 
xxxvi. 

Prodigal Son Plays, Ixxii-lxxiv, lxxx,lxxxii, 
Ixxxiii. 

Prose, in Medwall's Nature, Ix ; in the 
Supposes, Ixxxv ; in plays of Lyly, 271, 
274 ; of Greene, 417. 

Prouerbes in the Englishe Tonge, Dia- 
logue Conteyneng the Number of the 
Effeduall, 3. 

Publishers : of Heywood's plays, 5, 8, 10, 
13, 16, 17, 63; of Roister Doister, 
97, 104; of Gammer Gurton, 197; 
of Lyly's plays, 276 ; of Peek's Old 
Wives' Tale, 348 ; of Greene's plays, 
403, 404, 405, 408, 411, 4I5» 418. 420» 
430; ofPorter's^^. fF.^., 534,535- 
Puttenham, George, his Arte of English 

Poesie, Ixxxiii. 
* Pyrgopolinices ' in Plautus, 102. 

QuADRio, r. S., Delia Storia e della Ra- 

gione d''ogni Poesia, xviii, Ixvii. 
Queen's players (Elizabeth's, 1583-1592), 

Greene's relations with the, 408, 409, 

411, 413, 417' 418. 
Querolus, a Latin play, xvii. 
Quintus Fabius, a play, 268. 
Quip for an Upstart Courtier, A, by 

Greene, 371, 398, 423- 

Radcliffe, Ralph, his Griselde and other 

plays, Ixxi. 
Ram Alley, by Barry, 352. 
Rankins, William, a writer for Henslowe 

in Porter's time ; author of Mulmu- 



iius Dumvallow ; joint author of plays 
with Hathaway, 524. 

Rare Triumphs of Love and Fortune, 
The, an early romantic comedy, 
Ixxxviii ; the induction in, 343 ; * Len- 
tulo ' in, 430. 

Rastell, John, reputed author of A New 
Interlude and Mery of the Nature of 
the Four Elements, Ixi, Ixxi ; publisht-T 
and perhaps author of Calisto and 
Melibcea, Ixviii ; relations with John 
Heywood, 5, 8. 

Rastell, Wilham, printer of four of Hey- 
wood's plays, 5, 6, 8, 10, 86 

Ray, J., English Proverbs, 108, etc., 194, 

569. 595- 

R. B. (Richard Bower?), Mr. FLay's 
conjecture concerning, 336. 

Realism in comedy : in Bodcl's St. Nich- 
olas, xvi ; in late Latin comedies, 
xviii ; in religious parodies, xx ; in the 
miracle cyles, xxiv-xxx, xxxv-xxxvi ; 
in the later ' marvels,' xxxix ; in pop- 
ular festival plays, xli-xlvi ; of the 
miracle Devil, xlvi et seq.; of the 
Vice, xlix et seq.; in the older moral 
plays, Iviii-lxii, Ixiii ; in the French 
and English farce, etc., Ixiv-lxvi ; 
in school plays, continental and Eng- 
lish, Ixix-lxxvii ; in fusion plays, Ixxvii 
et seq.; in survivals of the moral, 
Ixxxvi; in the Rare Triumphs 
and in Wilson's * Stately Morals,' 
Ixxxviii-xc ; comedy realistic or satir- 
ical, xci. In Heywood, 4 et seq.; in 
Udall, 99, 103 ; in Stevenson, 202- 
204 ; in Lyly, 275 ; in Peele, 342- 
344; in Greene, 388, 39'-394, 4i9» 
428-430 ; in Porter, 528-533 ; in 
Shakespeare, 644, 645, 648, 653 
et seq. 
Rebelles, by Macropedius, Ixx, Ixxiv. 
Red Ettin, The, a fairy tale referred to 

in comment on O. W. T., 345> 362. 
Redford's Wit and Science, Ixix, Ixxii. 



68o 



Index 



Reed, Isaac, his edition of Baker's Dic- 
tionary of the Stage, on Gammer 
Gurton, 201. 

Regularis Concordia Monachorum, xiii. 

Reinhardstoettner, Karl von, on Plautus, 
117, 190. 

FeliquicB Antiquce, by Halliwell and 
Wright, xxxvi, 191. 

Renaissance, the, effect upon drama, 
Ixiv ; upon Greene, 390. 

Repentance of Robert Greene, The, 398, 
418. 

Respublica, a controversial moral, xlix, 
Ixxii, Ixxiv, Ixxvi, Ixxvii. 

Resurrection, The, miracle plays of, xiv, 
xix, xxii. 

Returne from Pernassus, The, on rivalry 
of Jonson and Shakespeare, 638. 

Reuter, Kilian, his Latin play of St. 
Dorothea, Ixx. 

Revets at Court, Accounts of the, 270 ; 
Udall and the Revels, 93. 

Rhetorical pause, the, methods of repre- 
senting it in dramatic blank verse, 

510-511- 

Ribbeck, Otto, his Alazon, 189. 

Richardes, Thomas, perhaps author of 
Misogonus, Ixxxi. 

Ritson's Songs, 191. 

Ritter, O., on Greene's Frier Bacon, /^it^, 
426. 

Rituale Romanum, the, and Udall's par- 
ody of, 192. 

Ritwyse, John, author of a satiric inter- 
lude, Ixxi. 

Robert of Gloucester, Robert of Brunne, 
their use of the septenarius, 189. 

Robin et Marion, by Adam de la Halle, 
xli. 

Robin Hood plays, xxxviii, xl ; ref., 418 ; 
The Lytell Geste of, 130. 

Roister Doister, by Udall, lix, Ixxii, Ixxvii, 
Ixxviii, Ixxix, Ixxx, Ixxxii, xcii. Edition 
with Critical Essay on the life of the 
jiuthor, the text, date, plot, characters 



of the play, with notes and appendix 
on various matters, by Professor 
Fliigel, 87-194; other mention, 202, 
203, 204, 338. 

Rojas, Fernando de (and Cota), their 
Calisio and Melibcea, Ixviii. 

Rolls Series, xix. 

Romantic, the, in saints' plays, xiv-xvi ; 
in Latin interludes and elegiac com- 
edy, xvii, xviii ; in miracle cycles, 
xxiv, xxix-xxx ; in various later ' mar- 
vels,' xxxvii, xxxviii ; in the older 
moral plays, Iviii-lix ; foreign influ- 
ence and native romance, Ixv, Ixvii- 
Ixix ; in the wit plays, Ixxiii ; in the 
plays of prodigals, Ixxiv-lxxv ; in 
fusion plays, Ixxvii et seq. ; especially 
in Damon and The Supposes, Ixxxiv- 
Ixxxv ; the movement toward roman- 
tic comedy, Ixxxvii ; nature, subjects, 
and kinds of romantic comedy, Ixxxvii, 
Ixxxviii, xci ; in Heywood, Ixix, 6 ; in 
Lyly, 271-275 ; in Peele, 338, 341- 
347 ; in Greene, 390, 427 ; in Greene 
and Shakespeare, 643, 645, 647 et seq. 

Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare's, 533, 
590, 603, 652. 

Rosalynde, Euphues' Golden Legacie, by 
Thomas Lodge, 645. 

Rose Theatre, the, and Greene, 408", 41 1 ; 
and Porter, 519, 520, 521. 

Ross, Mr. C. H., on the authorship of 
Gammer Gurton, 202. 

Rowley, Samuel, intimacy of Henry 
Porter with, 524. 

Royal entries, their dramatic significance, 
xl. 

Royal Exchange, by Greene, 398. 

Rutebeuf, his play of Theophilus, xvi. 

R. W., his Afartine Marsixtus, 424. 

Rye's East Angliatt Glossary, 211. 

Sacrament plays, xxxvii, xxxix. 
Saints' plays, the early, their nature and 
relation to comedy, xiv-xxi j the later. 



Index 



68i 



their contribution to drama, xxvii ; a 
list of, and their connection with ro- 
mantic plays, xxxviii ; secularized as 
in .5"/. George, xli-xlv ; mentioned, 
Ixii, Ixxxiv, Ixxxviii. The Play or 
Pageant of SL Anne, xv ; St. Botulf, 
XV, xxxviii ; St. Christian, St. Chris- 
tina, Sts. Crispin and Crispinian, 
xxxviii ; St. Dorothea, Ixviii ; St. Ed- 
ward and St. Fabyan, xxxviii ; St. 
George, xv, xxxviii, xli ; St. Katharine, 
xiv, XV, xxxviii ; St. Laurence, xxxviii ; 
St. Mary Magdalejie, xxx, xxxvii, 
Ixxxvi ; St. Nicholas, xv, xvi ; St. 
Olave, xxxviii ; St. Paul, xxx, xxxvii, 
1 ; St. Sebastian, xxxviii ; St. Susanna, 
XV, xxxviii. 

St. Andrew's Day, note to mention in 
O. W. T., 358. 

St. Augustine, against the mimi, etc., xix. 

St. Dyryk, perhaps Theodoric, 69. 

St. James the More, Life of, xliv. 

St. Jerome, his attitude toward Plautus 
and Terence, xvii ; and legendary 
miracles, xxxviii. 

St. John's, Beverley, Resurrection play 
at, xiii, XX. 

St. Luke's Day, mentioned in O. W. T., 

358. 

St. Modwena, mentioned in Johan., 82. 

St. Sithe (?), 213. 

Satire, mediaeval in drama, xvii ; in re- 
ligious parodies, xx ; in the miracles, 
xxiv, xxviii-xxix, xxxvi ; the Devil not 
primarily satirical, xlvi, xlviii ; the 
Vice in satirical literature, li-liv ; in 
the interlude, Ivi, Ixv, Ixx, Ixxvi, Ixxvii, 
Ixxxiii, Ixxxvi, xci ; in Heywood, 4 et 
seq. See also articles on Udall, Lyly 
(265, 267), Peele, Greene, Shake- 
speare. 

Scene, the, beside a scene, 424. 

Schelling, Professor F. E., his English 
Chronicle Plays, Ixxvi ; his edition of 
Tom Tyler i Ixxxi. 



Schick, Professor, his edition of Kyd's 
Spanish Tragedy, 410 ; on Faire 
Efnrn, 41 1. 

Schipper, Professor, his Neuenglische Met- 
rik, applied to Greene's verses, 508- 

509- 

School plays, xiv, Ixv, Ixix-lxxv ; Eng- 
lish for Latin, 90, 98, 197-198, 267, 
270. 

Schwab, Das Schauspiel im Schauspiel, 

343. 

Scillaes Metamorphosis, by Lodge, 406. 

Scipio Africanus, the play of, 268. 

Scott, Sir Walter, account of Shetland 
Sword Dance in The Pirate, xliii, 
xiv ; on " Brotherhood in Arms," 366. 

Second and Third Blast of Retrait from 
Plaies and Theaters, Henry Den- 
ham's, on * strange ' comedies, 342. 

Second Trial, The, the York play of, xxv. 

Secular plays, the early, and their con- 
tribution to comedy, xx-xxi, xxxvii- 
xlvi ; see also Morals, Farce, Inter- 
ludes, and Romantic Comedy. 

Secimda Pastortcm, the Second Shep- 
herds' Pageant of the Wakefield 
cycle, xxvii, xxviii, xxxii, Ixix, 3, 202, 

533- 

Selimus, The First Part of the Tragical 
Raigne of, not by Greene, 418, 420, 
482, 483. 

Senarius, The, in Greene, 509; and the 
Septenarius in Udall, 189. 

Seneca, Ixxxv, 275. 

Sequentia falsi Evangelii Secundtim 
Mar cam, in Du Meril, 19 1. 

Seven Deadly Sins, the, xxx, xxxi, xlix, 1, 
lii, liv. 

Shakespeare, William, the Fool in his 
plays, lii, bcxxiii ; incidental mention, 
Ixxxv, 191 et passim; relation to 
Lyly's work, 271, 275, 287, 322; to 
Peek's, 336, 343, 345 ; to Greene's, 
387-389. 393-394, 401-402, 415 ; re- 
semblances to, in Porter, 517 ; Shake- 



682 



Index 



speare as a Comic Dramatist, a 
monograph by Professor Dowden, 
635-661; the essentials of Shake- 
spearian comedy, 637 ; tragedy com- 
pared with comedy, 639 ; comedy, 
the characters in, and their relation 
to incident, etc., 640-660 ; punish- 
ment and rewards in Shakespeare's 
comedy, 641-642 ; compared with 
Jonson's comedy, 641 ; complication 
and resolutitjn, love, laughter, satire, 
642-643; intrigue and treatment of 
materials, 644 ; euphuism, 646 ; his 
development as a comic dramatist, 
648 et seq.; transformation plays, 
648 ; I.oves Labour'' s Lost, 649 ; The 
Comedy of Errors, 650 ; 1 he Two 
Gentlemen of Verona, 650 ; A Mid- 
summer Aight^s Dream, 651; l^he 
Merchant of Venice, 652 ; The Ta?n- 
ing of the Shrew, 653 ; the Falstaff 
plays. The Merry Wives of Wind- 
sor, King Henry V, 653-654 ; Much 
Ado about Nothing, 654 ; Twelfth 
Night, 655 ; AlVs Well that Ends 
Well, 656 ; Measure for Measure, 
657 ; Troilus and Cressida, 657 ; his 
relation to Chapman, Dekker, Mars- 
ton, Jonson, Southampton, 656-657; 
the period of tragedy, 657-658; 
Pericles, Cymbeline, The Winter's 
Tale, The Tempest, The Tzvo Noble 
Kinstnen, 659-661. 

Shaw, Robert, a player acquaintance of 
Henry Porter, 516, 524. 

Shearmen and Taylors' Pageant, the 
Coventry Guild play of the, xxiii. 

Shepherd's Plays, The, of York, xxv ; of 
Wakefield, xxvii, xxviii, Ixxxi ; and 
see Secunda Pastor um. 

Sherwood, Thotnas, his Anglais et Fran- 
(ois Dictionaire, added to Cotgrave, 
118, 194, etc. 

Shipwrights' Play^ ThCy of Newcastle, 
xlviii, lix. 



Short Discourse of my Life, A^ by 

Greene, 397. 
Shows, dumb, Ixxxix. 
* Shrew ' plays, Ixxxi. 
Shrewsbury, religious play at, xiii. 
Sidney, Sir Philip, 337 ; his Arcadia^ 

389. 
Simpson, R., his School of Shakespeare, 

404, 422. 
Singer, John, one of the Admiral's men 

in Porter's time. 
Sir Armadace, the " Thankful Dead " 

in, and O. W. T., 345. 
Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes, Ixxxviii, 

335, 341, 342. 
Sir John Oldcastell, by A. Munday and 

others, 523. 
Six LLundred Epigrams, by John Hey- 

wood, 3. 
Skeat, Professor W. W., xiii, no, 190, 

374. 

Skelton, John, contribution to Fool- 
literature, lii ; his Magnyfycejice, 
Iviii, 189 ; his Nigromansir, xlviii, 1, 
Iviii ; his Phyllyp >parozue, 192. 

Slater, Martin, an associate of Henry 
Porter, 521. 

Smeken, his Sacrament Play, xxxix. 

Smith, Miss Lucy Toulmin, her edition 
of the York Plays, xxiii, xxvi. 

Smith, Toulmin, his English Gilds, 
xxxviii. 

Solyman and Perseda, perhaps by Kyd, 
the source of Peel's * Erestus ' in 
O. W. T., 383. 

Sonnets, the, of Shakespeare, 656, 658. 

Sotties, the French, Ixv-lxvi. 

Southampton, the Earl of, 646. 

South English Legendary, The, xliv. 

Spanish Masquerado, The, by Greene, 
398, 409. 

Spanish Tragedy, The, by Thomas Kyd, 
410, 427. 

Spencers, The, or Despencers^ a tragedy 
by Porter and Chettle, 516, 523. 



Indi 



ex 



683 



Spenser, Edmund, Lyly compared with, 
274 ; Harvey's characterization of, 
340 ; his Tears of the Muses, 405 ; 
other mention, 421, 426. 

Spenser, Gabriel, the actor, 524. 

Spider and the the. The, by Heywood, 3. 

Stansby, WilHam, printer of Lyly's plays 
for Blount, 269, 276, 

Stanyhurst, Richard, his hexameters and 
Harvey's ridiculed in O. IV. 7'., 373. 

Staple of News, The, by Ben Jonson, xlv. 

Steevens, George, his letter on Cottius, 
348. 

Stevenson, William, the author, accord- 
ing to Mr. Henry Bradley, of Gammer 
Gurtons Nedle ; Critical Essay on 
his life and the play assigned to him, 
with an edition of G. G. N., notes 
and an appendix, by Mr. Bradley, 
205-259. Other mention, lix, Ixxx, 
Ixxxii. 

Still, Dr. John, not the author of Gam- 
iner Gurtons Nedle, 199-202. 

Storojenko, Professor, his Life of Greene 
(in Dr. Grosart's edition of Greene), 
397,406, 415. 

Stow, John, his Survey, xxxviii ; on 
mummings, xl. 

Strange, Lord, his players (1589-1593), 
and Greene's Orlando, 408 ; and 
Frier Bacon, 411. 

Studentes, see Stymmelius. 

Stymmelius, the author of the play of 
Studentes, Ixx, Ixxiv, Ixxxii. 

Summer^s Last Will and Testament, by 
Thomas Nashe, 384, 424. 

Supposes, The, by George Gascoigne, 
Ixxviii, Ixxxii, Ixxxv, Ixxxvii, Ixxxviii. 

Suppositi, L, by Ariosto, adapted by Gas- 
coigne, Ixviii. 

Susanna, a play by Macropedius, Ixx ; 
see also St. Susanna. 

Sussex, the Earl of, his players (1591- 
1594), and Friar Bacon, 41 1 ; and 
George-a- Greene, 4 1 3. 



Swoboda, Dr., his John LLeywood ah 
Dramatiker, 12. 

Sword Plays, xliii, xlv. 

Symonds, J. A., his Predecessors of Shake- 
speare, Ixviii, 339, 346, 422. 

Talents, The, the Wakefield play of, 
called Processus Talentorum, xxviii. 

Tamburlaine the Great, by Marlowe, 
and Greene's Alphonsus, 403 ; and 
the Looking- Glass, 4.06 ; and Orlando, 
410; and George-a- Greene, 41S. 

Taming of a Shreiv, The, example of a 
play within a play, 343. 

Taming of the Shrew, The, Shake- 
speare's, Ixxxv, 415, 652. 

Tempest, The, Shakespeare's, Ixxxix, 644, 
659, 660. 

Ten Brink, Professor B., on the priority 
of legend to Scripture in English 
comedy, xiii-xiv ; on the dramatic 
value of the miracle plays, xxxii ; on 
the characteristics of tragedy and 
comedy, Ixii. 

Terence, intlebtedness of modern comedy 
to, xvi, xvii, Ixvii, Ixviii ; the ' Chris- 
tian Terence,' Ixxii, Ixxxii ; Udall's 
Flozvers from Terence, 89, 98, 1 01, 
102 ; notes to Roister Doister, 288. 

Tertullian, against acting, xix. 

Thankful Dead, the, a popular motif, 

345» 365. 
That Will Be Shall Be, a play, 521, 

526. 
Theophilus, by Rutebeuf, xvi. 
Thersytes, A Newe Lnterlude called, lix, 

Ixxi, Ixxii, Ixxviii ; the authorship of, 

and date, 12-14, 108, 112, 191 et 

passim. 
Three Lleads of the Well, The, a fairy 

tale referred to in O. W. T., 345, 359, 

372. 
Three Ladies of London, The, by R. W., 
probably Robert Wilson, Ixxxviii, xc, 
xci. 



684 



Index 



Three Lordes and Three Ladies of 

London, The, by the R. W. of the 

Three Ladies, Ixxxviii, xc, xci. 
Thrie Estatis, A Satire of the, by Lynd- 

say, xlix. 
Thiimmel, Julius, on the Miles Gloriosus 

in Shakespeare, 190. 
Tyde Taryeth no Man, The, by George 

Wapull, Ixxxvi. 
Timon of Athens, Shakespeare's, 659. 
Tindale, on the use of the holy candle, 

192; also cited, 142, 154. 
'Titiville,' in Roister Doister, 190; 

'Titivillus' in Mankynd, xlvii, xlviii. 
Titus Andronicus, 418, 
Tityrus and Gallathea, by Lyly, 265. 
Tobias, the Play of, mentioned, xxxiv. 
To7n Tyler and his Wife, the play of, 

(edited by Professor Schelling),lxxxi ; 

Kirkman's edition, 336 ; mentioned, 

530» 533- 
Topsell's History of Four-footed Beastes, 

280, 281. 
Towne, Thomas, an actor in the Admiral's 

company in Porter's time, 524. 
Towneley Plays, The, edited by A. W. 

Pollard and George England, xxiii, 

xxiv, etc. See Wakefield. 
Tragedy, compared with comedy, xxi, 

xxii, Ixii, 639. 
Train's Geschichte d.Juden in Regensburg, 

xxxi. 
Transition, of plays from miracle and 

moral to comedy, Ivii, Ixii, Ixiv, Ixix. 
Travesties of religious services, xx, xxi. 
Trial before Herod, 77ie, in the York 

plays, XXV. 
Triall of Treasure, The, Ixxxvi, 121, 

123. 
Trimeter, in Roman comedy, 189. 
Troilus and Cressida, Shakespeare's, a 

satire on Ben Jonson, 638, 657, 

658. 
Tunic's Love, by Greene, 410 ; similarity 

to Friar Bacon, 414. 



Turberville, on Richard Edwardes,lxxxiv ; 

Turberville's Venerie, reference to 
440. 

' Tutivillus ' in the Wakefield Judicium, 
xxix, xlvi, xlviii. 

Tusser, Thomas, his joo Pointes, and 
Udall, 90. 

Twelfth Night, Shakespeare's, 352, 646, 
655. 656. 

Two Angry Women of Abington, The 
Pleasant Historie of the, by Henry 
Porter, edited with critical essay and 
notes by C. M. Gayley, 513-633 ; llie 
Second Parte of the Two Angrey 
Wemen, 516, 522, 524, 525. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona, The, Shake- 
speare's, 648, 650. 

Two Ltalian Gentlemen, or Lidele andFor- 
tunio, by Anthony Munday, Ixxxviii. 

Ttvo Mery Wemen of Abenton, The, by 
Porter, 516, 523, 535. 

Two N'oble Kinsmen, The, by Shake- 
speare and Fletcher, 660. 

Udall, Nicholas, mention of his Roister 
Doister, lix et passim ; his Flotvers 
frotn Terence, Ixxi, 89 ; text of his 
Roister Doister, edited with critical 
essay, notes, and appendix, by Pro- 
fessor Fliigel, 87-194; life of Udall, 
89 ; date of the play, 95 ; date of the 
early edition, 97 ; place of R.D. in 
English literature, 98 ; the plot and 
characters, 100 ; the present text and 
earlier reprints, 104; \i\% Apophthegms, 
142, etc.; Appendix, 188-194; the 
metre of R. D., 189 ; the figure of the 
Miles Glorios7is in English literature, 
189; 'Titiville,' 190; 'Mumble- 
crust ' and the maids, 191 ; the mock 
requiem and other parodies, 191 ; 
Roister as ' Vagrant,' 192 ; the 
prayer and * song ' at the end, 193 ; 
works quoted in the notes, 194. 

Ugolino, his Philogenia, Ixvii. 



Index 



685 



Ulrici, H., on Greene, 408. 
Usury statutes of Henry VIII and Ed- 
ward VI, 96. 

Valentine and Orson, 418, 426. 

Vanbrugh, Sir John, his character of 
' Hoyden,' 531. 

Vergerio, his Faulus, Ixvii. 

Versification, alleged irregularities in the, 
of Friar Bacon, a study by C. M. 
Gay ley, 503-513. 

' Vice,' the role of the, in early plays, 
xlvi, xlviii-liv ; Ixxiii, Ixxvi, Ixxxii, 
bcxxiii, Ixxxvi, Ixxxix ; in Heywood, 
11 and 10, etc. (' Mery Reporte ') ; 
Udall, 100 ; in Stevenson, 203 ; in 
Peele, 342 ; in Greene, 393, 430. 

Viel Testament, le Mistere dti, xxxiv. 

Vitalis of Blois, his dramatic poems, xvii. 

Voragine, Jacobus de, his Legenda Aurea, 
XXX, xliv. 

Wadington, William of, his Manuel des 
Pechiez, xix. 

Wager, Lewis, his Life and Repentaunce 
of Marie Magdalene, xxxi, Ixxxvi. 

Wager, William, his The Longer thou 
Livest, etc., Ixxxvi, 533. 

Wagner, Professor W., on Friar Bacon, 
440, 446, 459, 510. 

Wakefield Plays, The (ordinarily called, 
from the family owning the MS., the 
Towneley), xxiii, xxiv ; indebtedness 
to the York cycle, xxv-xxvi. 

Wakefield, the Playwright of, xxv-xxix ; 
his pecuhar stanza, xxv-xxvi ; his im- 
provements upon the second and third 
York schools of dramatic composition 
and his original productions, xxvii- 
xxix. 

Wapull, Geo.^ The Tyde Taryeth no 
Alan, Ixxxvi. 

Ward, Dr. A. W., his History of English 
Dramatic Literature, xviii, xix, xlix, 
Ixviii, Ixxvi, Ixxxviii, xc, 89, 10 1, 102, 



103, 346, 397.403, 405, 417, 419, 421, 
422, 426, 430 et passim; his Old 
E7tglish Drama, 353, 363, 413; his 
edition of Friar Bacon (in 0. E. Z>.), 
415, 426, 430, 439, 441, 442, et pas- 
sim in the notes to Friar Bacon. 

Wardrobe Accounts of Richard II, xl. 

Warner, Mr. G. F., his Catalogue of the 
MSS. and Mtmiments of Alleyn''s 
College of God's Gift at Dulwich, ex- 
posing some of Collier's ' emenda- 
tions,' 515. 

Warton, Dr. Joseph, Biographical Me- 
moir of the late, on Co?nus and the 
Old Wives' Tale, 348. 

Warton, Thomas, his History of F.7iglish 
Poetry, xxi, xxiii, xl, xli, xlii, 90, 
346 ; his Milton'' s Poems, etc., on the 
names in Comus, 383. 

Watson, Thomas, his Passionate Cen- 
turie of Love, 265. 

Wedego, Bishop, against religious plays, 
xxxvi. 

Weever, John, his verses Ad Henri cum 
Porter, not intended for the drama- 
tist, 519. 

Well of the World's End, The, a fairy 
tale, see note to O. W. T, 345, 359. 

West, Richard, his Court of Conscience^ 

517. 

Westward Hoe, by Dekker et al., a song 
in, 352. 

Wether, The Play of the, by John Hey- 
wood, edited with critical essay and 
notes by Mr. A. W. Pollard, 3-59. 
Other mention, xlix, li, Ixvii. 

Wever, R., his Lusty Jttventus, xlvii, li, 
Ixxii, Ixxvi. 

" What Thing is Love ? " a song in Peele's 
Hunting of Ctipid, and in the play of 
Doctor Doddipoll, 336; paralleled in 
Greene's Mourning Garment and 
James IV, 415-416. 

Wheatley, H. B., his book on John 
Payne Collier, 515. 



686 



Index 



'White Bear of England's Wood, The,' 
a character referred to in O. W. 7"., 

345» 356-357- 

White, Edward, publisher of Greene's 
Friar Bacon, 41 1 ; copyright owned 
by William White, 430. 

Whitgift, Bishop, Injunctions at York, 
etc., 193. 

Wife of Usher's Well, The, referred to, 
notes to O. W. T., 363. 

* Wilful Wanton,' a character in George 
Wapull's Tyde Taryeth no Man, 531. 

William of Blois, his Alda, xvii. 

'Will Summer,' Henry VIII's jester 
impersonated in Nashe's Stwifner's 
Last Will, etc., lii, Ixxxii, Ixxxix, 344. 

Wilson, Dr. John, Professor of Music at 
Oxford, 518, 519. 

Wilson, Robert, the author of Three 
Ladies of London, and of Three 
Lordes and Three Ladies, Ixxxviii-xc; 
probably also of A Knack to Know a 
Knave, xc, xci, 425 ; colleague of 
Chettle in the non-extant Second Part 
of Black Bate?najt, 522; his Sir John 
Oldcastell mentioned, 523. 

Wilson, Thomas, his Arte of Logique or 
Rule of Reason, the " ambiguous let- 
ter" in, 93,95, 97. 

Wily Beguiled, cited, 24, assigned to 
Peele, 336. 

Winchester Tropers, the, xiii. 

Winter's Tale, The, Shakespeare's, 644, 
659, 660. 

Wireker, Nigel, his Brunellus {Spectdum 
Stultorum), alluded to, xviii, lii. 

Wisdom that is Christ, the moral of, in 
Furnivall's Digby Plays, xlviii, 1, li, 
liii, Iv, Ivi, Iviii. 

Wisdome of Doctor Doddipoll, The, as- 
signed to Peele, 336. 

Wit and Folly, the dialogue of, by John 
Heywood, 8. 

Wit plays : Wyt and Science, by John 
Redford, Ixix, Ixxii, Ixxiii, Ixxxviii, 



426 ; The Contract of a Marrigt 
between Wit and Wisdome, liii, Ixxi, 
Ixxiii, Ixxvii, Ixxxi ; The Marriage of 
Witte and Science, a revision of Red- 
ford's play, conjectured by Mr. Fleay 
to be the same as Wit and Will, 
Ixxiii, Ixxiv, Ixxvii. 

Wolsey, Cardinal, perhaps referred to in 
Play of the Wether, 52. 

Woman Hard to Please, a lost play, 521, 
526. 

Woman, in comedy, Meredith on, Ixi. 

Woman in the Moone, The, by Lyly, 266, 
268, 272. 

Woodberry, Professor G. E., monograph 
on Greene's Place in Comedy, 387- 

394- 

Wood, Anthony a, on Udall, 89 ; on the 
Porters, 518, 519. 

Woodes, Nathaniel, author of The Con- 
flict of Conscience, Ixxxvi. 

World ajtd the Child, The, or Mundus et 
Lnfans, a moral, 1, Iviii. 

Worthies, the Nine, and Lovers Labour''s 
Lost, xl, 650. 

Wright, Thomas, his Early Mysteries, etc., 
of the 1 2th and ijth Centuries, xviii ; 
(and J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps), Re- 
liquice Antiqtice, xix ; reprint of the 
Lnterludiu?n de Clerico et Puella men- 
tioned, xvii, Ixvi. 

Wycliff, his attitude toward miracles, xix. 

York Plays, The, date and composition, 
xxiii ; periods of, comedy in the sec- 
ond and third, xxiv-xxv ; relation of 
Wakefield plays to, xxv-xxvii ; the ro- 
mantic and melodramatic in, xxix. 

'Young Juvenall,' not Lodge but Nashe, 

337- 
Youthe, Ballad of, by Robert Greene, 

397. 
Youth, The Interlude of Ixi, Ixxi, Ixxiv. 
Youth, school plays of, Ixxii, Ixxiv. 
Yvers, Jacques, his Printemps dWver,^\i 



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